


Little Moon

by anamazonruns



Category: Dimash Kudaibergen - Fandom, Real Person Fiction, dimash qudaibergen, international romance - Fandom, k-pop idol
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe - Idols, Alternate Universe - Not K-Pop Idols, Espionage, F/M, Friends to Lovers, How Do I Tag, International romance, Love, Marriage, Romance, Slow Romance, Spiritual Marriage, True Love, dimash kudaibergen - Freeform, im baking brownies right now, interfaith romance, k-pop idol - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:09:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 67
Words: 140,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28424508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anamazonruns/pseuds/anamazonruns
Summary: I changed Dimash’s name and nationality out of respect.  But you’ll know it’s him.Lonely, lovely, language nerd Katya Connor lost everything as a child.  She has been trying to get her life back, working as an interpreter and trying to become a diplomat.  She has been assigned to Sanzharistan and has come into the orbit of one of the international music scene’s brightest rising stars:  Adam Zapatenov, a charismatic, talented, unattainable singer whose gravity is hard to resist.  As their friendship takes a central role in her life, she is pursued by an even bigger star: Song Cho-Ji, her celebrity crush, one of k-pop’s most established idols.Katya is a little moon in the glamorous and seductive universe these stars illuminate.  And her work there is far from the diplomatic career she has been pursuing her whole life. But that career is also veering off in an unexpected, exciting, but dangerous direction:  espionage.  Zapatenov gives her access to people and places most Americans can't reach, her education and languages make her a valuable asset, and her age and appearance make her easy to underestimate.Catastrophe forces Katya to face her demons and make hard choices.  Where will she find happiness?
Relationships: Katya Connor & Adam Zapatenov
Collections: Novel_Worthy_Complete





	1. The Zapatenov System

**Author's Note:**

> I tagged this as Dimash fanfic but it is only kind of Dimash fanfic. It's ... Dimash inspired. If you know him, then you know that inspiring others is pretty much what he does.
> 
> It started with a few scenes that I couldn't get out of my head that were definitely about Dimash. I wrote them down just so I could get the mental space to think about other things. It didn't work, because then I wanted to connect them, which required more characters and some motivation and a way to get from point A to point B (aka a plot) and the story started to take shape almost on its own from there.
> 
> Along the way I hit the wall of my discomfort level with writing about real people. My lead, Katya, was inspired by three exceptional young women I have known, but she's truly my invention. I can do what I want with her. As for Dimash, not so much. It's one thing to describe a real person in concert, quite another to have him doing my imagination's bidding. I wanted that character to do what I wanted him to do, and that started to feel... I don't know. I didn't think he'd like it.
> 
> So I changed his name, made up a country, immediately felt much better, and was then free to do what I wanted with the character and the culture. Adam is really not meant to be Dimash anymore, but anyone who knows Dimash will definitely recognize quite a bit of his personality, circumstances, and (of course) appearance. So if you like real person fanfic and want to think of Adam as Dimash, by all means, go for it. It should still be easy.
> 
> I didn't set out to write a book, but scenes kept coming to me, and I really wanted to see what happened to Katya. Ten months later the ending came to me out of the blue and a first draft of a book is what I had.
> 
> While I consider this to still be a work in progress, I thought I would present it to you while the whole thing is still reasonably close to fanfic and there's enough of Dimash left for folks who want that to have it.
> 
> I hope you enjoy it and I look forward to any comments you choose to leave.
> 
> An Amazon Runs

I would have known it was him without anyone saying so. He definitely looks like a star. This is a regular black-tie wedding, but he’s wearing a red-carpet-ready, obviously custom three-piece black tuxedo with bold white accents. No tie, collar open, dashing. He is unrealistically handsome, a composite example of a perfect human from Earth, looking more Asian from some angles and more European from others. He has beautifully refined features: those perfect full cupid’s-bow lips that so many Asians are blessed with; a sharp jawline that you’d see on an Italian; large, wide, dark eyes. Perfectly tousled black hair falling into his face just so. He’s lounging back in his chair, emanating elegance and status and fame. 

Damn. Sexy, for sure. He’s ready for a magazine cover, many of which I understand him to have adorned already all across the Eastern hemisphere. So this is Sanzharistan’s most valuable export. All that and talent too? I can’t help but stare for a moment, but I manage to look away before I embarrass myself.

I hadn’t really understood until I saw him for myself. I ask Amelia what it’s like to work for someone who is not only a musician, like she is, but such an obvious ... the only word is star. Amelia and Saraiya explain to me that not only is he a star in the celebrity sense, but in the team, he is the star in the sense that everything orbits him. They have half-jokingly worked out a whole solar system based on it. 

The people at his table, his mentors and family, his manager – those are planets that orbit him directly. Amelia’s husband Rashid is also a planet, having been the singer’s friend since childhood and now his producer and sound engineer. Amelia herself, even though she’s been his keyboard player for two years and knows him well, is just a little moon. She orbits Rashid because he’s in charge of the musicians and she wouldn’t have gotten this gig if it weren’t for him. Nepotism is a way of life here. 

Most of the other musicians, including the groom, are also moons orbiting Rashid. Vanya, for reasons nobody can understand, is his own planet. Extended family are moons orbiting the star’s parents. Saraiya is a moon orbiting the star’s manager, Dilshad, because she works for him on promotions and media. They laughingly explain the celestial assignments of everyone at our table, which moons orbit which planets. They are mainly little moons. They are happy to reflect the star’s light.

Even though I have not met the star, in a sense, I too am a little moon in the star’s solar system. He is the reason that I have come into the orbit of my new friends. It is thanks to him that I have been invited to this wedding at all. 

I met Amelia and Rashid two months ago at the American embassy in Izmir, Sanzharistan’s capital, where I work as an interpreter. We were all at a meeting about the world tour that the star is embarking upon next year. It will include a leg in the Americas that will culminate in a concert in Los Angeles, his first United States appearance.

The star is already quite famous in much of Asia and Eastern Europe. He is probably the most famous person in his country other than the president, and is undoubtedly the only Sanzhar that any significant number of people outside his country have ever heard of. In the few weeks since I arrived in Izmir, even I had heard his name: Adam Zapatenov. 

Zapatenov is bringing a lot of positive attention to his country, and his country in turn has a strong interest in showing him to the world, especially to the West. At the request of Sanzharistan’s Minister of Culture, he has timed his Los Angeles show to coincide with an international Asian Culture Festival that will be held there next summer. The American official in charge of the Festival, Juliet Botticelli of the American Bureau of Educational and Cultural Affairs, had come to Izmir to meet with the Minister and Zapatenov’s team as one of the stops on her regional planning tour.

The star was not in attendance, but his father, Ismail, and his manager, Dilshad, were there for the business arrangements, while Amelia and Rashid came to represent the creative side. The Minister of Culture herself also joined the meeting to sweeten the pot however she could and ensure favorable promotion and placement for Sanzharistan’s favorite son. 

Amelia caught my eye immediately. Despite seeming to be about my age, she looked to be about as opposite from me as possible. She was dressed all in leather with what could only be a three-foot ponytail extension, impressive red nails with matching lips, and heavy jewelry. Young Sanzhar women always seem to dress to the nines. 

As I quietly did my part, Amelia noticed me and gave me a warm smile that I did not expect given her appearance. It was nice, since I am usually more or less wallpaper at these meetings. She introduced herself to me on a bathroom break. She had a bold, forceful personality to go with her look. A bit rough around the edges. But she was very friendly and welcoming, and very inquisitive, and started asking questions right away, beginning with my job as an interpreter.

I don’t like to brag, but facts are facts. I have condensed this to as few words as possible. “My parents were diplomats, so I picked up Spanish, French, and Italian living all over Western Europe as a child. I learned Russian in high school to entertain myself. I got Chinese, Korean, and Japanese on my way to my PhDs in Asian Studies and International Relations.” 

“You must be a genius!” She was impressed, looking at me open-mouthed, taking the opportunity to apply more lipstick. 

I had to cringe a little. I know it sounds impressive. But you don’t end up with all that at age 24 because you’re particularly awesome. You end up like that because something went really wrong in your life somewhere along the way.

“Well, thank you. Really, I just have a knack for languages. You know, once you have a couple, each new one is easier.” 

She unabashedly sized me up. “You’re gorgeous. Why are you hiding under that awful sweater?” Wow, that was blunt. But I couldn’t deny that it was an awful sweater. 

The sweater is part of the uniform I always wear for interpreting gigs: long black turtleneck cardigan that a condescending executive’s wife once referred to as a shroud; large, rose-tinted glasses that cover much of my face; a military style black cap that covers my hair, no makeup, no jewelry. Plain as I can be. Conveniently, this is acceptable attire for a woman everywhere from Madison Avenue to Mecca.

“In my job, it’s better not to take any attention away from the people doing the real work. So I cover up like this, put on my headset, and pretty much try to be invisible.”

“That’s got to be hard for you, being so young and pretty.” I got the sense that she’d take my measurements if she had a tape measure handy. I couldn’t help but laugh. Amelia is totally disarming.

“I’m used to it. And diplomacy is a tough business. It’s hard for somebody my age to get taken seriously. Honestly, my looks don’t help. It’s easier if nobody is paying attention to my assets. So even when I’m not interpreting, I keep it very plain and boring.”

“Well, here in Sanzharistan, we girls don’t hide our assets. If you want to fit in here, you shouldn’t either. Flaunt it, girlfriend!” She dropped her lipstick in her bag and we headed out while Amelia continued with her questioning: my background, what I’m doing in Sanzharistan, the usual.

I answer. “I’ve wanted to work for the Foreign Service my whole life. Everything I’ve done up until now has been working toward getting a diplomatic position in Moscow or Seoul. That’s why I learned so many languages.”

“Really, your whole life? That’s so ... random. Why that?”

I have told this story many times. I gave her the abridged version back in the conference room. 

“When I was little, my dad was a Deputy Assistant Secretary in the US Bureau of European and Eurasian Affairs. Mom worked at the embassy in Madrid, where they met. So that was the world I grew up in, constantly traveling all over Europe, hanging out with ambassadors, prime ministers, poets, people like that. After they died, I had to go back to my Mom’s tiny hometown in the US. I made it my mission to do everything I could to get back to the kind of life I had as a child. So here I am.” 

I don’t go into detail about my parents’ terrible death in a terrorist bombing when I was ten, and the horrible aftermath for my own life. That’s too much information for a first meeting.

“But you don’t speak Sanzhar.”

I have to cringe at that too. It is the height of American arrogance to assign a non-Sanzhar speaker to the American embassy in Izmir. Of course virtually all Sanzhars are as fluent in Russian as they are Sanzhar, and the sophisticates of the younger generation increasingly speak English, so I can communicate with almost everyone, just not in their native tongue. 

“No. This isn’t my permanent assignment. I’ve only been here three weeks. I’m stationed here until they move me to the Moscow embassy. A job is opening there soon.”

“I was raised in Moscow. I’d love to live there again. I doubt I will though. My husband and I are both Sanzhar. He’s from here, and of course Adam lives here, so as long as we are working with him, this is home.” 

Partly due to my diplomatic training, partly because I tend to be intimidating, and partly because I never had enough friends, I always try very hard to be as kind and considerate as I can possibly be to the people around me. So I took pains to ask her about herself, her work, her interests, and listened to her attentively, thinking it would be nice to make something like a friend. It was easy to draw her out; she’s already pretty gregarious. Turned out her husband, Rashid, is the producer. They are 25 and already have two kids.

The meeting was much more interesting and less trivial than I expected. I wished I had known ahead of time so I could have done some research. Although the rest of his tour of the Americas will be fairly modest in scale, the plan is for the Asian Culture Festival concert to be a blowout with every bell and whistle. 

Zapatenov will be bringing basic equipment: his preferred microphones and receivers, instruments, backing tracks, mixing board, other electronics, costumes. In LA, though, he’ll need everything. Jumbotron screens for the video components, scaffolding for the dancers, set pieces, pyrotechnics, rigging, lighting, additional speakers. Plus probably 40 people to go with it: riggers, carpenters, caterers, security, technicians, electricians, drivers. I loved the details. 

Zapatenov’s team oversold him aggressively, claiming he was one of the greatest singers in the world, with a voice straight from heaven. The Hollywood Bowl, they said, is the only big Los Angeles venue with acoustics worthy of him, and they were certain he could fill it. The notion seemed pretty laughable to me, but of course I showed no sign. Juliet, however, was not laughing. She had heard him. She actually agreed. She pledged him both the Hollywood Bowl and a nice sum from the US government to help scale his Los Angeles show up to the level of the concerts he gives on this side of the world. 

Learning what goes on behind the scenes at a show like that was fascinating. It was the most fun I’ve had interpreting in ages.

Amelia spoke to me again as we all headed out after the meeting.

“Well, Katya, you are the most interesting person I have met in a long time. How long do you think you’ll be here?”

“I don’t know. I’m guessing six months?”

She asked for my Instagram handle and was fascinated to learn that I have no social media. Instead, we exchanged phone numbers, like the dinosaurs used to do. 

I know that a 24 year old without social media is something of a freak. Thanks to my early homeschooling, when I had to return to the US at the age of 10, I had to go into seventh grade. I was 15 when I went to college, escaping the small town my beauty-queen mother grew up in. I was already taking after her in the looks department by then. Since I had no friends, I learned quickly that my social media accounts served only to allow unwanted visitors to stalk me, so I just closed them all. Later, I had other reasons to stay offline. 

Amelia seemed to feel that it was her duty as a Sanzhar to ensure that this newcomer met people, so she invited me to dinner at her house to meet her friends. I felt awkward, but I did want to meet people, and moreover, as a member of the diplomatic corps, I actually couldn’t decline. So I accepted.

This dinner was only the first invitation in a long string of them. Amelia and her friends have completely taken me under their wing. Hospitality is a major cultural value here. So I suddenly have a surprisingly busy social life with a lot of really interesting and creative people. I am invited for numerous meals, days in the park with Amelia and Rashid’s family and various friends from the music world or other parts of their lives, one or more things every weekend that I’m in town. I am loving it. 

Especially when I get invited to the wedding that kicks off the most important year of my life, in which I become a little moon; a planet; a comet; the love interest of not one, but two international stars; a spy; an entertainment industry specialist; a star in my own right; and most important, a member of a real, live family.


	2. Team Zapatenov

Almost three months to the day after my arrival in Sanzharistan, I now get to attend Lukpan and Elena’s wedding reception. I am the plus one for Saraiya, as her husband is out of town. I have met the bride and groom enough times now that I don’t feel completely out of place. I would not have merited an invitation on my own, but with so many of my new friends going, they made sure I would be included. 

Sanzhar weddings are attended only by immediate family, but receptions are a major affair. I’m excited about it since I haven’t been an actual guest at anything fancy in a few years. I’m always working when there’s champagne involved. 

Amelia’s advice about not being shy to look good has been haunting me. I’ve been living in shapeless t-shirts at home, dreary business casual at work, and my shroud when I’m interpreting. Now I want to feel pretty and, frankly, try to get some positive male attention. I was 22 when I broke up with my grad school boyfriend, and I’ll be 25 in a few weeks. This has been a long dry spell. It’s time to show off. A wedding is the perfect opportunity.

I’m a knockout when I want to be, and on this night, I want to be. I have had almost no expenses the last couple of years so I can splurge when I want to. I bought a beautiful strapless dress for the wedding, the whole thing essentially black and white pleats sewn together. The bodice is skin-tight and mostly black. The skirt’s outer layer is black and reveals lots of fluffy white chiffon underlayers when I move. It’s a Fred Astaire and Grace Kelly kind of dress, made for twirling. Made for catching eyes. It contrasts with my fair skin and light hair, which I wear loose and long, and hugs all my best attributes. I wear makeup. I don’t have any fun jewelry, but pearl earrings always work. A pair of strappy black heels complete the look. 

It’s nerve wracking to show up to a wedding reception alone, but a lot easier when you turn every head in the room. However, I’m definitely not the only head-turner here. A lovely young girl, another in what seems to be an endless supply of young Eurasian beauties, directs me to my table, where my friends are already gathered, having cocktails before dinner. These are the ones on Zapatenov’s team. 

Having only seen me in my usual drab attire, they praise my appearance to the point of embarrassment. I try to turn attention away from myself and return their compliments. They really do look beautiful and they are truly exceptional people, extra warm tonight, full of laughter and chatter that I try to keep up with. My heart feels full, with so much love in the air among such wonderful people. But there’s a pang, of course. These occasions are full of friends, family, and love, all of which I lack. Sigh. Maybe when I get to Moscow and can try to put down some roots.

I wanted to get attention, and I do get it. A lot of it. Unfortunately, it is only from sloppy older men. This country, like its neighbor to the north, has a serious drinking problem. As cocktail hour goes on, some of the men are already drunk and a bit aggressive. I, on the other hand, am having a seltzer with lime. My grad school boyfriend self-medicated extensively with alcohol, so by the time I turned 21, I had no interest in taking it up. 

A number of these men stop by to pay me compliments and get a closer look. I had forgotten about the down side to looking like this. People in general are uncomfortable if they are drinking and you’re not, so I try to keep my sobriety subtle. But from my sober standpoint, the impairment of these men is very noticeable. Eventually one of them asks me to dance and I have to accept. He’s gropey, grindy, and gross. It’s hard to keep him at bay without making a scene. Fortunately, Vanya notices and cuts in, and from then on, it’s just me and my friends.

Almost everyone here is already married, but the guys take pity on me and ask me to dance, expertly spiriting me away from uncles lurching toward our table. One thing about this culture is that the ingrained sexism results in the men in a woman’s social circle taking pains to make sure she is safe from unwanted attention. It’s a mixed bag, though, because while it is very nice to avoid unwanted attention, the men tend to decide among themselves whose attention is wanted and whose is not. So, yeah, a little taking away of the women’s agency there. Still, I appreciate it tonight.

Weddings are great places to learn even more about a culture’s ingrained sexism, and indeed, the men are soon talking about Lukpan’s bachelor party, which included a staged “kidnapping” of Elena, followed by the presentation of Lukpan’s bride gift to her: the diamond pendant she is wearing now. 

Saraiya, recently married and an expert on all things matrimonial, explains it to me. This bachelor party tradition comes from the very old rule that if a man kidnapped a girl from her village, ran off with her to his family’s village, and slept in the same bed with her, she had rights. By law, his actions (which today we’d call rape) made him her husband. Just like any husband, he’d have to give her a bride gift, valuable enough for her to sell and survive on for a while in an emergency, and he and his family would be responsible for her for the rest of her life, unless, of course, they divorced, in which case she’d get a nice payout.

The bachelor party version is based on the more romantic practice of lovers eloping, forcing reluctant families to consent after the deed was done and the girl was rendered unmarriageable. Evidently, Sanzhar law still recognizes marriage by kidnapping. Any Sanzhar man who spends the night with a woman in his family home runs a very real risk of waking up as her husband, if she wants to enforce it. It’s a great way for parents to scare their sons into behaving properly when they have girls over.

She also explains some of the other rituals and ceremonies that the happy couple have been doing. Like Saraiya, Elena’s family follows a mix of Islamic and traditional Sanzhar practices that require multiple events over several days. Some of the events revolve around the requirements of an Islamic marriage: getting the woman’s male guardian’s consent, signing the prenuptial agreement, giving the bride gift, witnessing the union, plus the ceremony itself.

Others are Sanzhar traditions. Multiple gatherings at the family homes of the bride and groom for various purposes. A special ceremony that relates to the old, more mystical traditions of this land, wherein marriage is not a contract between people or clans, but the result of God literally merging the souls of two people so that they share a single soul. No officiant at that one; it’s just between the couple and God. In their tradition, that’s actually all it takes. Elena and Saraiya both did that one, Amelia didn’t; she’s secular and practical.

Having absorbed my cultural lesson for the day, I put my diplomatic dance lessons to use. I feel reasonably elegant on the dance floor and enjoy the effect of my dress twirling out. The music is classic standards that lend themselves to dances with actual steps. Well, they are classic Russian standards. They are a bit cheesy, dated, the Russian version of “What’s New Pussycat.” The songs are loud, sweeping, and boisterous, but I actually have fun with that. 

My partners and I laugh and have a great time while I try not to think about how I’ll probably never see any of them again after another three months or so. The guitar player is quite a good dancer, and his percussionist girlfriend is generous loaning him out to me. I can feel a lot of eyes on me. I see that there are indeed age-appropriate men looking at me closely, but not a single one approaches. 

I’m bummed, as I can see a nice selection of the abundant handsome men this country produces. Sanzhars are a blend of Asian, European, and Turkic descent, exactly my type. College in California offered me a wide menu of all the flavors of men offered by the world’s various cultures, including plentiful good-looking, athletic Asian or part-Asian men in my program. I developed a preference for their less aggressive, more respectful, family-focused ways as well as their looks. There is a ton of diversity in Sanzharistan but a much larger segment of the population turns my head here than I have seen anywhere else in the world.

Since almost everyone seems to be married by my age, this event could be one of very few chances to exchange a little body heat with a single man. I’m not sure why the young men are hanging back while the uncles aren’t. It could be that they have been warned off by my companions. That wouldn’t exactly shock me. It could be that culturally they can’t come over without an invitation or introduction. I know that culturally I cannot make the first move. Or maybe I overdid it. Maybe I’m the unapproachable bombshell American. I feel embarrassed for showing off. 

But I’m still having a really nice time. I chat with my friends, I’m at least getting ogled a bit even if nobody is flirting with me. I smile and laugh and feel more relaxed and happier than I have since I got here. I’m actually really enjoying the music. The atmosphere is very warm and very lively. I try not to be wistful that my new social life isn’t going to last. Best not to get used to it.

Amelia points out Zapatenov a couple of tables away. He is definitely my type. He’d be anyone’s type. I recognize Dilshad and the singer’s father with him. Amelia tells me that another beautiful, bejeweled queen of a woman is his mother. With them are two other families. The men are musical mentors and collaborators for Zapatenov as well as family friends. She tells me that this is his innermost circle, the star’s planets. I admire him, subtly, I hope, while she and Saraiya explain his solar system to me.

This is the most elaborate wedding reception I’ve ever been to outside of actual royal weddings, where I didn’t get to eat. Dinner is ornate and includes traditional dishes that feature things like boiled animal heads. It’s too late to claim I’m a vegetarian, so I sample with feigned enthusiasm. It’s ... edible. There must be 40 different kinds of foods, though, so I don’t have to choke down much of anything particularly difficult. 

After dinner, Zapatenov comes over to our table. Everyone rises and greets him gregariously in Sanzhar. Having spent the last couple of years in the company of celebrities, power brokers, and world leaders, I’m not inclined to bow to fame, but of course I rise as well. I observe how the moment he enters our sphere everyone indeed orbits him like the star he is, immediately sucked in by his gravity, which even I can feel. 

His charisma and attractiveness fill up a lot of space. Although he is obviously in a completely different league from all us mere mortals, he puts down what I note is a soda, not a cocktail, throws open his arms, and passes out giant, grinning bear hugs to the men, lifting Vanya and Rashid off their feet. He treats everyone like he’s just one of the guys. It feels very sweet and sincere, unpretentious, a total contrast to the impression I got watching him at his table. I can’t help but smile. They all really do seem to love each other and aren’t shy about showing it. I’m a little jealous. 

In addition to being unrealistically handsome and apparently inhumanly talented, he’s also very tall. Of course he is. He bends down to kiss the cheeks of some women and shakes the hands of others. Amelia gets a kiss, Saraiya a very warm handshake with both his hands. He turns to me, shakes my hand, and introduces himself formally in Russian. Of course he assumes I don’t speak Sanzhar, and I feel a guilty twinge that he is right. 

“Hello, I’m Adam Zapatenov,” he says. He gives me a truly dazzling, happy smile and slight bow of his head, as if he were a regular person, which he kind of seems to be. 

“Katya Connor,” I reply. 

“It’s very nice to meet you,” he says. He looks away immediately, without checking me out in the slightest. Well, that’s a bit deflating.

“Katya is the friend I told you about. The interpreter at the American embassy,” Amelia informs him. 

Now he looks interested. 

“Ah, yes,” he says in English, “I have heard about you.” His speaking voice is low and warm. His English is good but not quite fluent enough to be automatic. He speaks slowly, with slight breaks between clauses. His accent is charming. “Welcome to Sanzharistan. I hope that my friends are taking good care of you.”

“They are. They have been very welcoming. I very grateful to Amelia for taking me in.”

He gives her a warm look. “Amelia is a good friend. What do you think of Sanzharistan so far?”

“It’s a beautiful country and culture. I’m very honored to be serving in Sanzharistan.” I have learned a lot in the last three months, and I mean what I say.

“Thank you.” He seems sincerely pleased that I said that. “I agree, of course. Bringing my culture to the world is my greatest...” he searches for the word “... ambition.” 

Oh really? He’s a 26-year-old rock star, the most famous person in his entire country, and that’s what he cares about? I’m skeptical. Sounds like a line from the Asian Culture Festival brochure.

“Actually, I should thank you. I’m here because of you.”

He seems more startled than necessary. “You’re in Sanzharistan because of me?”

I laugh. I guess that’s the kind of assumption the most famous person in the country would make. “No, I’m at this wedding because of you. I met Amelia and Rashid at the embassy when they came for a meeting about your US concert. They introduced me to Lukpan and Elena.”

He has the good grace to laugh at his own mistake. “That’s right. Well, then we must have been meant to meet.”

“Will you sing tonight?” Saraiya asks him, in Russian.

The star is standing up very straight and now seems very dignified for somebody who was literally picking his friends up off the ground moments before. “Maybe at the end. When the band is done. We’ll see. Probably.” Everyone seems delighted.

Someone clinks a spoon against a glass and we all take our seats for toasts and speeches. 

This will continue late into the night but it is mainly in Sanzhar. I’m annoyed that I didn’t manage to meet anyone interesting and that I did not even inspire a glance down my cleavage from a handsome and presumably heterosexual man a foot taller than me while he stood right in front of me and spoke to me. That’s practically physically impossible. Whatever. I have an assignment in the morning and it’s already 10pm, so I hug and kiss everyone at the table and leave while the band is playing its last set.

If I had stayed to hear Adam sing, the next year of my life would almost certainly have been completely different.


	3. How I Got Here

I landed in Izmir three months ago with two suitcases and a carry-on, all the possessions that I own. I had not a single friend or relative to call to let them know I had arrived. There’s nothing wrong with me, but my circumstances have led to a solitary existence. 

Sanzharistan makes no sense to me, but at least it is a step down the path I’ve been trying to walk since the day my parents died. 

That day changed the course of my life and became the basis of my entire personality. It was the day that I learned what it is to be alone. I had no siblings, no aunts or uncles, no cousins. My father’s parents had already passed away and I had never even met my mother’s parents, who I now had to go live with, leaving Europe for the small town in the rural American South that my mother grew up in.

I endured the next five-and-a-half years as best I could. I had nothing in common with my grandparents. I had less in common with my middle school classmates, who were nice enough but too old to be friends with a ten-year-old, and remained so through high school. I remained pretty much alone.

So I did the only thing I could: bury myself in school. I worked on the languages I already had and added Russian, which I had heard plenty of as a child, at the community college two towns over. It wasn’t completely horrible. It’s not like I was forced into servitude at Miss Minchin’s Seminary for Girls. But I was still thrilled when I was able to leave for California and college. It was sad for my Grandmother, though. Her husband had died only a year before, and now I was leaving too.

I had decided years before that the only way to get back to the life of my childhood was to follow in my parents’ footsteps and join the US Foreign Service. While Dad focused on Western Europe, I decided to major in Asian Studies. I started with Chinese because it seemed that being able to speak with our future overlords would be a good idea. 

At 15, I was too young for college, too odd for friendships, too tempting to take chances with boys, and too smart to be satisfied with just Chinese. College turned out to be a lot like high school: lonely. I added Korean and Japanese just to see if I could. I could. I graduated in December having just turned 19, fluent or close to it in eight languages. My grandmother died the following month, leaving me completely alone.

Oddly enough, the Foreign Service doesn’t hire teenagers, so I went to grad school in New York, going after PhDs in Asian Studies and International Relations. I started to become concerned that with no family or friends I was at serious risk of ending up knitting hats for cats. So I was relieved when I met my first boyfriend, an assistant professor in the Russian Studies department who didn’t know initially that he was almost ten years my senior. By the time he found out, it was too late. He was head over heels.

Grad school went quickly. David was constantly working on publishing, so I constantly worked too, and completed my coursework and dissertation in three-and-a-half years. Despite being busy, I did get to have my first taste of a real social life. David was from the City and had a group of friends there that he grew up with. Obviously, that relationship didn’t work out, and when I lost him, I lost all his friends. Alone again.

I joined the Foreign Service at 22, right after graduation, and started training immediately. I seemed to be in diplomatic finishing school, getting extensive training in relevant things like how to smoothly navigate every imaginable social or business situation and in seemingly irrelevant things like how to commit every detail of a conversation, situation, or location to memory. Spy 101.

For the next two years I went all over the world, interpreting and otherwise assisting at economic, political, cultural events of every type. I developed my uniform and my special way of working. Pretty soon I was in demand. I was surprised at the level of my assignments given how junior I was. I was in the room and even in the car with royalty, captains of industry, celebrities, heads of state. 

No setting down roots, though. I gave up my apartment in New York and even the storage unit with the last few of my grandparents’ possessions. I lived in hotels and didn’t make friends. Finally, I was told that a position in the Moscow embassy would be opening in the next few months. Moscow, right at the crossroads between Asia and Europe; the perfect place for me. This is the job that I have been waiting for and the city where I hope to finally have a home again.

In the meantime, I will be stationed in Sanzharistan, for reasons I cannot comprehend. I not only don’t speak the language, but like most Americans, I know almost nothing about the country. So I try to learn a bit before I arrive. 

Sanzharistan is a former Soviet Republic. It is close to China as well as Russia, which gives it some strategic importance for the United States. Its government is democratic, the economic system increasingly moving from communism to capitalism. It is 70% Muslim but after 100 years of having Soviets stomp on religion, Islam is nowhere near as deeply ingrained as in the less developed ‘stans south of it. Religious political parties are outlawed, as are organizations that foment political or religious violence. It is a peaceful nation.

The Sanzhar people have developed profound national pride since their country became independent after 100 years of Soviet oppression. The country is now quite modern, with bustling cities and thriving arts and culture. It’s warmer than Russia and has abundant natural beauty. It actually seems like it might be a nice place to spend a few months.

I arrive almost exactly two years after I started working for the Foreign Service. I rent my first apartment since I left New York, a short-term lease of a sparsely furnished studio in a downtown high rise across from a bus terminal. No need to buy furniture or a car for my few months here.

I start work immediately. It is almost suspicious how everyone here seems to think it makes perfect sense for me to be in Sanzharistan when it makes no sense to me. Of course a 24-year-old with my credentials and experience gets a lot of attention. While the people in the embassy are nice, some seem a little skeptical. I have already experienced the way certain people make assumptions about how a girl who looks like me gets to where she is.

By the time I was in graduate school I had grown into an objectively beautiful woman. Pretty face, bright eyes, thick wavy hair in a color that stylists tell me their clients beg for them to recreate. Good skin, full lips. I’m curvy and pretty much top notch in the T and A department, especially since the Foreign Service has encouraged me quite firmly to stay quite fit for the past two years.

I know some good things do fall in my lap due to my appearance. I also know that I didn’t do a thing to deserve it. My physical charms have about as much to do with me as the color my apartment happened to be painted when I moved in. It isn’t fair. So I try to not to capitalize on it and to be considerate to everyone no matter what they look like.

Still, my new colleagues test me – do I really have those PhDs, am I really fluent in all those languages? Who exactly have I dated in the Foreign Service? Somebody high up, probably? I have learned that the only way to overcome it is to work twice as hard as anyone else and always be the most competent person in the room. 

The embassy gives me a fair amount of what feels like busy work, desk work that uses my language skills but is otherwise way below my level. Most of my work is simple translating. Even though that work is less and less valuable given advances in computer translators, they still can’t capture the nuance of an actual person who is both fluent and culturally literate. Much of my translation is just adding flavor to something already electronically generated. It’s not exciting. 

Since they don’t seem to have enough of that to keep me busy, I get sent to more trainings and workshops. Many are briefings on regional geopolitical issues from the perspective of the American government. These are right in my wheelhouse. Others are Spy 201, how to actually do certain things rather than passively take in information and blend in. These feel like summer camp. Diversionary tactics. Basic encryption. Handoffs. Lockpicking. Dead drops. Planting recording devices. Smuggling! These are totally fun but really not relevant to my current work or my career plans. Spy 301 probably includes things like poisoning and jumping off of two-story buildings. I’ll pass on those.

When I’m not doing that, they have me running around doing the same kind of work I was doing before I was assigned here. I’m somebody’s aide, somebody’s interpreter, keeping my eyes and ears open, reporting back. Sometimes I’m asked to discretely deliver something to somebody on the periphery at these jobs, an employee or cousin of somebody rich, famous, or royal. If they wanted me doing this, I don’t know why they bothered stationing me here. Whatever. At least it’s a break from the routine.

In the meantime, though, my social life is doing better than it ever has. Amelia and Rashid have introduced me to their very large social circle of friends, siblings, cousins, on and on. Their friends are creatives of every type. 

Many of the musicians are part of Zapatenov’s team. Amelia plays keyboard for him, of course, and Rashid produces much of his music and his is closest creative collaborator. Lukpan sings backup for the star when he’s not making his own music. His fiancé, Elena, is a tiny, darting little creature, cute as a button and hilarious. She’s gradually making her way through college, studying journalism. She has a giant crush on Zapatenov that she is miserably failing to hide. Every time his name comes up, she turns pink and fidgets. Lukpan, fortunately, finds it funny. Also fortunately, he’s very handsome and from what I have heard, a great singer himself, so hopefully Zapatenov isn’t a real threat to his marriage. 

I meet another backup singer, one of the guitar players, and a percussionist. That’s about half the band. The musicians seem to almost worship Adam’s musical abilities. They consider him to be a bona fide rock star on par with anyone else in the global music scene. They are honored to be on his team.

Another woman I like a lot, Saraiya, works in Dilshad’s business office. She is young, smart, shy, and serious. She’s recently married. Her husband, Mohammed, is quite a bit older, a barrel-chested man with a full beard and a booming laugh. He’s a real estate agent by day and a mullah by night, taking care of his students’ spiritual development. 

Vanya is a Russian multi-media visual artist who has settled here in Izmir. He’s the oldest member of the group, closer to 40. He knows Rashid and Zapatenov from the fine arts university they all attended. He makes a living as a photographer and travels with them frequently, shooting concert photography. When I ask him about that, he laughs and tells me that taking pictures of Zapatenov on stage is not exactly a dream come true for a man. I’m not sure what he means. He’s either extremely straight or totally closeted, given that he shows up with a different woman every time I see him. 

Their personalities are varied, but what they have in common is that they are almost oppressively welcoming. Sanzhars are famous for their hospitality and they totally embrace the guest in their country. It never hurts that I am young, attractive, and impressive, but I get the feeling they would treat anyone like this. I pretty much never leave a gathering without an invitation to another one. I’m included in all kinds of things and after two months it starts to feel like the social life I had in New York. But these gatherings are boisterous, music-filled, and warm, rather than snarky, intellectual, and ironic. I really like it.

The star is of course central to this group but he does not make an appearance. He is heavily booked these days. He’s doing his thing, promotions, TV shows, guest appearances at music festivals of various sorts. He is also so famous here now that going out in public is difficult for him. Rarely, he’ll go to people’s homes or public places that have private rooms, sometimes a movie, but even there somebody always wants autographs or selfies or some piece of him. So even though some of these people are his closest friends, they mainly see him at work. When they do see him socially, it’s usually an invitation to his house, which of course I won’t be receiving. 

I only hear a little about him. They guard his privacy and don’t talk about him behind his back. It’s obvious how much they admire him and like him. What I do hear a lot about is their work with him. They are in a lull now. Adam is starting to do some composing for a new album but it’s too early for anyone but Rashid to be involved. The world tour doesn’t start until January, so they won’t get busy with that until December. They are all working on their own careers but they are anxious to be getting back to work with him. The big show is under his tent.


	4. OMG I Get to Meet N-POWER!

It really feels like I’m just in storage here in Izmir. I don’t understand what my bosses are thinking. The work is spotty, dull, and doesn’t seem connected to any larger project. I fill my time with what seems like more barely relevant trainings and one-off interpreting jobs. Fortunately, I’m so completely dispensable that I do get one of the coolest assignments of my life. 

After the Zapatenov meeting in August, I had a chance to ask Juliet Botticelli about her career. She works in a particularly pleasant part of the State Department. She told me that her work is fun, varied, interesting, and everywhere. It has more geopolitical consequence than you’d think. Even in countries where we have bad relationships and can’t talk about very much, we can usually still talk about exchanging dance troupes. 

What the Bureau does is very frequently the non-controversial first step in establishing diplomatic relations or improving ones that have gone sour. All peace, no war. Plus, they get to see lots of arts and culture and attend all sorts of fun events. Not at all the kind of thing I’ve been working toward, but it does sound like a bit of a dream job. 

The Bureau is tiny, though. Very few job opportunities. We hit it off, so she took my information anyway. I told her how I decided in graduate school that I would rather communicate with our future business partners than our future overlords, so I specialized in Korea. She told me that she might be able to use me for a major international event coming up in Rome involving a Korean boy band that she did not name. 

I now find out that Juliet has indeed requested my services at the event. I will get to travel to Rome for my 25th birthday at the end of the month. And the boy band at issue turns out to be none other than N-POWER. It’s one the biggest bands in Korea right now and is surprisingly popular world-wide. Their music is pure pop, super fun but also quite respectable in terms of its musical complexity. And of course I, like everyone in the Northern Hemisphere, have seen some of their very impressive music videos. 

Their production company is setting up a massive world tour. The tour will last almost five months, have 25 locations in 20 countries and hit every continent but Antarctica. They will be playing the largest concert arenas in the entire world, with multiple shows in each location. Something of this scale involves governments, not just private entities. Even though the start of the tour is still ten months out, a literal international summit is scheduled in Rome to negotiate the details. There will be a lot of languages involved.

I fly to Rome and I get to feel intercontinental and brush up on my Italian and Korean. This time, I do research. I have to watch several videos before going to Rome to get clear on exactly who is who. Hours of videos. Totally necessary music videos of a lot of mind-blowingly difficult and incredibly sexy choreography as well as endless hours of them being charming and adorable and seductive and fascinating. Now I have crushes on all of them, each for a different reason. These are among the world’s most desired men. 

One of them in particular, Song Cho-Ji, may well be the world’s single most desired man, appealing to every gender and orientationAs someone already partial to Asians, I’m extra susceptible to Cho-Ji’s charms. I have to watch a lot of videos of him, you know, for science. 

The whole thing is so big it has taken over a conference hotel. There are hundreds of people involved and multiple languages going on at once, every language I speak and several that I don’t. This isn’t a situation where I’m in the ear of any one person. I am directly interpreting between individuals in all the languages I know. I am moving around, being summoned over walkie-talkie to go to go from room to room when anyone in the American delegation needs me. The whole tour kicks off with two shows in LA during that same Asian Culture Festival I learned about when I met Amelia. There’s lots to do.

For such an exciting tour, the business planning is dull. Logistics, logistics, logistics. This band isn’t just a band; it’s a multi-media empire. They basically need an entire production company in every country. They’ll not only perform the shows but they will have endless appearances as well. Part of the trip will be devoted to filming video content in the most exotic locations in every country. Enough to feed their fans for a year or more. Those poor boys will be lucky to live through it, I think. 

Permits, local transportation, massive security, lodging for them (must be close to activities, picturesque, interesting, comfortable, large enough for camera crews) and for the giant entourage (must have walls and roof, walls optional in some climates). It’s the same kind of thing as the meeting for Adam’s LA concert, but 100 times more. Unlike that meeting, this summit involves settling the details all the way down to signing the contracts for delivery of the right brand of toilet paper, so it gets pretty dull pretty fast.

But the nine band members themselves are at the summit, being paraded around before all the execs and officials to remind everyone that this is all going to make a lot of people a lot of money. So far I have only seen them from a distance, but they look like perfect living dolls. Gorgeous, talented, fit, photogenic, millionaire dolls, ranging in age from 21 to 29. In other words, all of them in my zone of age-appropriateness.

To my delight, Juliet told me ahead of time that I will get to interpret for them at one event. The American delegation is hosting a party at the stunning Villa Aurelia, with its views of the eternal city spread out below. It happens to fall on my birthday. Juliet will be there, along with the American ambassador to Rome and some of his cultural understaff. Only the most important VIPs get to attend from every country, and of course with so many countries they will need my services, so I get to go too.

I struggled mightily with what to wear when I learned I would be interpreting for the band. The dress from the wedding would not be out of place at this event. Reluctantly, I decide that my reputation for professionalism is more important than impressing a group of men who will be there to impress people far more important than me, so I go for my uniform. When the time comes, though, it’s a beautiful fall night under the Roman stars, so can’t bear to wear the hat and glasses. I let my hair down and apply some mascara, but I keep my body under the shroud. 

The party has been going on for an hour, me interpreting among groups of global citizens, when the men float in on a cloud of perfume and magnetism. I get very excited. I feel like a fan. Since we are hosting, we get to control who meets them. Our little delegation is right there with the band members as representatives from countries and companies wind through a long receiving line to bask in their glory. 

I can’t believe I am standing here next to N-POWER. The band members have a smattering of languages between them, but I am still needed to supplement, translating into Korean for the rest of the members, or into whatever anyone else requires. The work is intense. I have never had to use so many languages all at the same time, speaking more or less constantly. By the time I switch to my fourth or fifth language, the members have noticed and are looking suitably impressed. I see a couple of words pass between them that I’m pretty sure are about me. I’m thrilled.

Depending on who is coming and going and what language is involved, different members will step up to converse while the others feign interest. They have this dance down as well any of their choreography. Part of the job. Despite looking like dolls, they are consummate professionals. When a member steps up, I get to stand right next to him! Touching distance. Smelling distance, even! Not that I do either of those things. I’m far too busy. As it wears on, the boys who aren’t up to bat at any given moment start to talk more among themselves. They are bored. They want to eat.

Eventually a point comes where I’m not needed, so I take a break and grab a bottle of water. My return catches Juliet’s attention. She takes the opportunity to wish me a happy birthday. The most desired man in the world, who doesn’t speak English well at all, knows that phrase.

“Happy birthday!” he says in adorably accented English, with a big, delighted smile to have understood something. Again, I have spent plenty of time in the company of rich, powerful, and famous men, but I am totally star-struck by this one acknowledging me.

“Thank you very much!” I reply in Korean, giving him my own big, delighted smile.

Like all the guys, he is wearing dewy makeup and floaty silk garments. He has pink hair. He is polished to perfection and is twice as lovely as any woman in the room. And yet I can’t help remembering what’s going on under all that floating silk. I totally swoon.

“I have to ask, how old are you?” In Korea, your age dictates how people speak to you. 

“Twenty-five today. I guess this is my birthday party!” 

“I’m 25 too!” His smile is perfect. “You’re working hard on your birthday,” he comments. A Korean telling somebody they’re working hard is a compliment.

I blow out a heavy breath and nod. “Thank you. It is a lot,” I reply.

“How do you speak so many languages?” Oh my God, Song Cho-Ji is talking to me! He’s seems genuinely interested. He could easily have ignored me completely, as the other members are doing, so I’m extremely flattered. I try to smile disarmingly and deliver my line.

“My parents were diplomats, so I picked up Spanish, French, and Italian living all over Western Europe. Later I learned Russian to entertain myself. I got Chinese, Korean, and Japanese on my way to my PhDs in Asian Studies and International Relations.” 

He’s very impressed, of course. The shocked look on his face pleases me inordinately. He actually has to take a moment before he answers. “Wow. You’re amazing! I have been trying to learn English. It’s so hard. I’m not any good at it. I really want to do better.” He still has a big photo-ready smile but looks disappointed in himself.

“You’re good at what you need to be good at.” My voice makes it clear that I’m making a huge understatement. 

“Ah, thank you,” he murmurs, looking down. He looks unconvinced. He’s disappointed in himself? Seriously? A couple of his perfectly polished friends are looking on with a little whiff of concern, but they are experts at not showing anything they don’t want to show, so it’s very subtle.

Boldly, I take a step closer to him, crossing the bright line between staff and celebrity. “Nobody is good at everything. I can’t speak German. Also.” I look dead serious. “I can’t ride a horse.” I don’t know why I said that last bit; it was absurd. It must be because everyone in Sanzharistan can ride. 

But somehow it makes him laugh out loud. He looks at me closely, actually seeing me, taking me in much like I do when I’m on the job memorizing who’s in the room. It is a surprisingly powerful moment.

“You’re right, you’re right. Thank you. You’re a very smart girl. And thoughtful.” He sees a new group approaching us. “It was very nice to meet you.” He regards me for another beat before he turns away. He is smiling his million-dollar smile and actually seems to feel better. 

I return to my duties. We don’t chat again, but as they are led away, he takes a moment to turn and give me a wave and a smile that seems genuine but is probably just perfectly practiced. I almost feel guilty for drooling over his videos. Almost. I am sure I will be doing it again as soon as I’m back at the hotel. This is a moment I’ll never forget. I made Song Fucking Cho-Ji laugh. He complimented me! What a birthday! I’m high on it all the way back to Sanzharistan.


	5. The RMR Negotiation

A few days after my return, I learn that Dilshad has asked the American embassy to loan me to out for something similar but about 99% smaller scale. Adam’s management team is in Moscow. Among other things, they will be negotiating some appearances to accompany his concerts in South Korea in a couple of months. They are having an important meeting with a major entertainment company and they need an interpreter who speaks Russian and Korean. 

It doesn’t make much sense for me to go, as this has nothing to do with the United States. But it is only a quick overnight, I am totally expendable (as always), and apparently these kinds of things are my domain now, so of course the embassy says yes. 

Even though I know the business end will be dull as dirt, I’m thinking that if my career has me working on culture and entertainment, that might be more fun than some alternatives. At least until I get to Moscow permanently. For now, I’m excited to be flying to Moscow even for a day. I can’t imagine Dilshad remembers me from the last meeting, so I suspect that Amelia was behind this excursion.

Unlike before, I will be interpreting just for Dilshad, and will be definitively on his team. Although I have only been asked to interpret, my client will be negotiating. I am excited for an opportunity to use the special skills I developed during my two years as a traveling aide and interpreter. One of my jobs was to extensively research the people we would be meeting and the issues we would be working on. I didn’t just interpret, I fed helpful information to my client live and on demand. It wasn’t a good idea of the other side to hear what I was feeding my clients, so I started to use a discreet headset and ear monitor to communicate with them. With the shroud, hat, and glasses, the headset became the last part of my uniform. I’ll use this for the meeting.

I have nothing else to do anyway, so I dig up everything I can on RMR Entertainment, the Korean company that Dilshad hopes will help present Adam to South Korea. I also research the RMR employees who are expected to be at the meeting. I learn a lot about them and also about the Korean music industry generally, something I barely scratched the surface of during my studies. It’s interesting, and I find my thoughts drifting to Cho-Ji pretty frequently. My ... research ... involves additional watching of K-pop music videos, figuring out what the RMR people care about and what they will be angling for. 

I arrive in Moscow and head right to the site, already in my uniform. I meet briefly with Dilshad, and explain my system to him. Dilshad is professional but he doesn’t seem all that quick. I’ll have to keep it simple. I give him the ear monitor and we go in the conference room to wait for everyone else.

I’m sitting against the wall behind Dilshad when, to my surprise, Adam comes in with his father. They take seats on our side of the table, Adam furthest down the line. I hadn’t expected to see the star. 

Of course, he’s here to be displayed for the RMR executives like the product he is. He is wearing a very cool, unique leather jacket but is otherwise dressed down. Blue jeans, soft grey sweater, motorcycle boots, sunglasses. They are almost certainly designer and his jacket is probably worth more than my whole wardrobe, but he doesn’t look flashy. 

He rocks this casual look as well as he did the tux from the wedding. Today he is more realistically handsome than he was last time. He still looks amazing, just more like a real person. I can hardly imagine a look more diametrically opposed to N-POWER’s, but I’m sure the Korean team will like what Dilshad is selling.

Their team has brought some contract language for Dilshad to look over. While he is doing that, a crisp, polished Korean woman in a grey suit comes in and sits opposite Adam, where the execs left a chair open for her. 

I recognize her as a senior vice president, one of the major players in one of the biggest idol-creating enterprises in the world. Our side wasn’t told she’d be here. She has the final say on which of RMR’s trainees have enough idol potential to debut and which do not. She’s acting all casual, but she can only be here to see how our own local idol measures up, and if she’s here, she’s making the decisions. They were right to bring him. I can see right away that she appreciates his looks. Who wouldn’t? His Eurasian face is the absolute ideal in Korea, and although he is seated, his height is discernible and another distinct advantage. 

I know that she has no family and is never pictured without a trio of little Corgis that she dotes on and treats like her children. I tell Dilshad to give the earpiece to Adam. Adam raises his eyebrows, but nods and puts it in. 

While they are shaking hands and saying hello, I whisper in his ear. I hope he’s up to this. It’s not easy to have a conversation out loud in your third language and pay attention to a voice in your ear at the same time. I keep my statements clear and concise and Russian. “She’s the boss. You need to charm her. She speaks English. Ask where she’s staying. Trust me.” Although he could have taken that question very much the wrong way, he obeys. As I suspected, she’s staying at Moscow’s famous, if ridiculous, luxury pet hotel. Yes! “Ask about her pets.” Of course, she brought all three Corgis with her. Her adoration of her fur babies lights up her face as she tells him about them. 

“Tell her...” I remember something I read about her saying, and I suddenly feel poetic. “... that love is universal.” I don’t need to say anything else. Given his profession, he is fluent in the language of love. He talks about the beauty of love, no matter what for. He makes her love of her dogs sound almost romantic and yet not weird. He totally woos her with his handsome, expressive face and his slow, deep, accented English. I feel a bit wooed myself. 

He then transitions into how his many love songs are designed to apply to anyone or anything. “What I try to say with my music is that love has no boundaries. What other people think, what is practical, none of that means anything. All that matters is what is in your heart.” It’s the perfect thing to say, bringing it back around to why they are here.

Well done, sir. 

She’s putty in his hands. After a couple of minutes she departs with a nod to the remaining execs. That’s their approval to give us terms that will help Adam make a splash in Korea. Yes!

“Perfect.” I say. “Pass me back to Dilshad.” As Adam slips the earpiece over to his manager, he glances back at me and just barely raises one corner of his mouth toward me.

I tell Dilshad that he can press for whatever he wants. The whole thing becomes a giant Adam praise-fest, which eventually starts to get old. You’d think no human ever sang before, or that he wasn’t even human, the way everyone is going on about him. I never have much of an appetite for the obsequiousness that follows the famous or powerful. 

But the negotiations for the Korean appearances go well. I help Dilshad be appropriately respectful, avoid asking the kind of yes-no questions that no Korean would ever give a straight answer to, and remain firm and persistent. I help Dilshad say the right things and clarify the obscure points. In short, I kick ass. 

It works. Dilshad gets a ton of exposure for Adam. He’ll be in the front row at the production company’s big televised talent expo. He’ll meet all the big players, connect with some producers and composers. He’ll do a ton of media to promote his concert in Seoul. All in addition to his two concerts. He will be very busy in Korea. This went fabulously and I’m a big reason why. I can call this one a professional triumph. 

After we wrap up, we all file out. The Koreans give Dilshad’s team the low, deep bows that signal a successful meeting. Adam holds the door for everyone. As I file out last, he speaks to me. 

“Katya.” I stop. 

He continues in English, with that captivating accent. “It’s nice to see you again.” 

It’s highly unlikely he would remember me from a brief introduction more than a month ago, much less recognize me in my disguise. Someone told him I would be here. Dilshad wouldn’t mention that, but Amelia would, which means she knew, which means that she was behind me getting this gig. 

“Nice to see you too.”

“Your suggestion was perfect. Thank you so much.”

“Of course. Good luck with the tour.” I nod and give him a cordial smile on my way out the door. 

I could have been friendlier, but after two hours of people talking about how he’s the world’s greatest singer and/or human being, I don’t feel like pouring on any more. My job here is done, so I head out while the team stands in the lobby talking. I plan to do a little sightseeing in Moscow tonight. I’ll have to thank Amelia. 


	6. Drought

Embarrassingly, I appear to have become a definite N-POWER fan. I watch their videos when I’m bored and I can now tell you quite a lot about each of the individual members’ personalities and skills. I’m naturally a researcher anyway, so I suppose it shouldn’t strike me as too odd that I now have file folders filled with articles and many, many photos. Plus, they have uncountable fans – 50 million? 100 million? – so I shouldn’t feel like a freak.

All the guys, but Cho-Ji in particular, remind me that I am a woman in my prime who has still not had an iota of male attention in a couple of years. Moreover, this country is replete with really gorgeous men who are exactly my type and from whom I would very much like to get a bit of attention. Unfortunately, I’m not sure how to navigate dating here. 

Sanzharistan is a tough place to find a man. Most of the good ones near my age are married. A large proportion of the rest suffer from the country’s drinking problem. I already dated a man with a drinking problem; I’m not taking that on again. I do encounter seemingly eligible, attractive men out and around, at the gym, in a store, at a lunch spot. Sometimes at a meeting. But a woman can’t approach a man here. The men who approach me aren’t close enough to my type to be worth tangling with for the short time I’m likely to be here. 

You would think that Amelia would be helpful, but while she keeps me involved in her very active social life, the only single man she brings me into regular contact with is Vanya. He is a genuinely nice and interesting guy, but he’s 100% stereotypical Russian – excessively rugged, green eyes, ash-brown hair, tattoos, a drinker – not my type at all. Plus at 40-something, he seems to date women indiscriminately, a different one every time I see him. They range in age from 18 to 58, a completely random array of personality types, professions, interests, social skills. His age puts him at my far limit, but his apparent willingness to date anything with a pulse renders him completely undatable. Fortunately, the disinterest appears mutual. Which makes him worse. How can he not be interested in me? 

Nope, Amelia’s social well is dry. I ask Elena about all those cute guys from her wedding; evidently they were distant relatives who she and Lukpan don’t even know. No help. Saraiya only knows the same people they do. Her husband has students but they are of the sort who most likely would not want to date a non-Muslim. Ah, right. Islam isn’t all that deeply ingrained here, but that sort of thing still matters a lot to people of faith. They all know the nation’s most eligible bachelor, of course, but he is obviously not an option.

I do attract some attention from one of the only potentially eligible men at the Embassy. Robert is an economist, probably around 30 years old. He is a midwestern, corn-fed type guy. Blonde, ruddy complexion. Decent looking, although I do have to say he pales a bit in the attractiveness department compared to the Sanzhars.

He has made a point of being welcoming, showing me where things are, asking about my background. We are both single and close enough in age that we would naturally gravitate toward each other as co-workers, so our frequent trips out for coffee can be interpreted either way. He likable if a little dull. Neither of us are doing particularly fascinating embassy work so there’s not much to talk about there. Our most interesting conversations tend to be about navigating life in Izmir. He tells me where to locate hard-to-find American products like peanut butter, where to watch movies that haven’t been overdubbed in Russian. Things like that. It’s pleasant. No real chemistry, though. 

My drought continues.


	7. The Victoria Awards

Another month passes with my social life humming along but my love life and career both seeming to be equally stalled. Then another request comes to the embassy from Dilshad. Can they lend me out for a whole weekend in early December? This time it is for the Victoria Music Awards. These are very prestigious in this part of the world, kind of the Grammys of Russia. Adam is nominated for two of the very top awards for one of his songs: Vocal Performance of the Year and Song of the Year.

The embassy doesn’t bother to ask me, and just says yes. It means another trip to Moscow, so of course I want to go. Adam and his team are already there. He is very busy recording TV programs for holiday specials and promotions for the Eastern Europe/Asia leg of the tour, which will be starting soon. During the weekend of the award show, press will be in from all over the world. It’s a big opportunity for him to become known in new markets. That’s what they need me for.

This time I’ll be working with the artist himself, helping him with the foreign press. It will be a headset and earpiece occasion. I get in contact with the Victoria awards press office, get a list of names and media companies that Adam should expect to encounter, and settle in for a week of research. This is very different from what I usually do. If I’m doing this, I’m going to be the best at it. I dive in and find it surprisingly interesting.

Dilshad is not on this trip. Instead, Adam’s father Ismail has come along. It seems he’s pretty involved with the business side of his son’s career. Rashid is also with us. He will be meeting with the several Russian members of the band, technicians, and so forth, getting everyone ready for the tour rehearsals that will be starting shortly. He is completely down to earth, no pretension whatsoever, extremely nice, utterly devoted to his family. He’s totally average looking. Unlike Amelia, he lives in jeans and sweaters and sneakers. His job is behind the scenes, not on stage. He is always working and thinking about music, so his attention always seems to be only half on what’s in front of his face, an absent minded musical professor. I really like him.

Having spent less than five minutes interacting with Adam before today, I’m a little apprehensive. Our friends genuinely love him, and he seemed genuinely nice in the maybe ten sentences we exchanged, but I’m always on guard around so-called VIPs. Usually they just ignore me, but some have treated me like dirt, others like a servant, a few attempted to treat me like a prostitute. Adam is also young and straight, so with an overnight involved, things could get sticky. I don’t think he’s like that, but you never know. I’m glad Rashid is here.

I have been told to meet for breakfast at their hotel. When I arrive, I’m in the shroud, dressed for work. Although I don’t know anything about the Russian music scene, I get the impression from the whispering and pointing going on in the dining room that there are a few celebs in the area. I can see a few people surreptitiously taking videos. Groups of girls, giggling.

Some of these cameras are pointed at a table where Adam, Ismail, and Rashid are seated. I have to give the host my name before she will let me in. She checks a tablet and leads me over. As I approach, they all rise. I hear sighs behind me. Huh. They must be fans. I haven’t dealt with that before. Adam smiles and waves at the gigglers.

Rashid welcomes me warmly with a kiss on the cheek. I immediately feel more at ease. He introduces me to Ismail. Ismail does not speak English and I don’t speak Sanzhar, so we’re speaking Russian.

“Uncle, this is Katya Connor, Amelia’s friend from the American embassy. She interpreted for you at the RMR meeting a few weeks ago.”

I shake Ismail’s hand and try to appear as professional and reassuring as I can. “We weren’t introduced before. It’s very nice to meet you now.” Ismail seems just as warm as I have come to expect Sanzhars to be. He’s in a crisp blue suit and red tie, ready to do business. He seems solid and ruggedly nice looking in a very different way from his son.

“Very nice to meet you too. Thank you for joining us.”

“Adam, you remember Katya.”

“I remember Katya very well.” I have to tilt my head way back to look up at him. He’s quite tall already but today he’s wearing big combat boots that must have him pushing 6’5”. In my sensible shoes, I barely reach his shoulder. Today it’s an edgy rock look, chains and leather. He looks at home in this too. Despite the style, he looks friendly and welcoming.

I extend my hand to him. “Hello again.”

He shakes my hand with both of his and speaks to me in English. “I’m very glad working with you.” I notice his little grammar mistake. In his voice, it’s disarming and sweet. “Thank you very much for coming.” _Zahnk you vehry much for kahming._

We sit down to discuss logistics, in Russian. I am here exclusively to interpret for Adam during the event. Rashid and Ismail will be in and out of our company, Ismail connecting with businesspeople and Rashid working with the creative people prepping and rehearsing for Adam’s performances. Those two only need Russian for their activities, so I’m going to be in Adam’s ear for the next two days.

I launch into the orientation I give all my clients. “So, let me tell you what I do. First, you already know, of course, that I do straight interpretation. When people are talking to you, I’ll tell you what they say. If they don’t have their own interpreter, I’ll also translate what you say back to them. If you are talking to a group, I’ll do that as well, into whatever languages are appropriate.”

Adam is watching me and listening closely. He’s taking this seriously, I’m glad to see. “What languages do you speak?”

Here we go again. “My parents were diplomats, so I picked up Spanish, French, and Italian living all over Western Europe. Later I learned Russian to entertain myself. I got Chinese, Korean, and Japanese on my way to my PhDs in Asian Studies and International Relations.” I add a bit. “No Arabic, barely any German. No Sanzhar.”

Rashid already knew, but Ismail is openly astounded, like most people are when they hear this. I feel a little extra pleased to have impressed the famous singer’s father. Adam did not know either. Amusingly, he almost looks turned on. Some guys are like that.

He says, “You must be a very smart woman.”

“I’m very good at languages. And I studied a lot.”

“I’m very good at singing,” he quips right back. “I also studied a lot.”

A sense of humor is an encouraging sign. I give him a wry grin. “So I’ve heard.” He snickers, knowing I’m referring to the hours-long praise-fest with RMR.

I keep going. “Part of my job is to make you look good, so when I translate your words to others, I’ll be faithful to what you say, but if there’s better way to say it, I’ll do that. Unless you tell me that you want me to translate you literally without any editing.” I look at him.

“I always want to be polite. If you can help me with that, I want you to.” That’s also nice to hear.

“My pleasure. So, the second part of what I do is information support. I do a lot of research before my engagements, finding out whatever might be useful to you in interacting with the people who I know or expect you to encounter. I’ve spent the last week doing that for this event. Remember the Korean executive who they didn’t tell us was coming? How I told you she was the boss?”

“Yes. That was very helpful. I would not have known.”

“Well, that’s the idea. If I know any useful facts, people’s names, who they work for, whether they are friend or foe, I’ll try to feed them to you at the right moment.”

Adam is still listening intently. I’m struck again by how attractive he is. Nobody rolls out of bed looking like that. He must have a team of stylists who have already had their way with him. It’s only seven a.m. He must have been up since four getting primped and polished. But this is not a time for distractions.

“Those kinds of things are for your ears only. That’s why I use this.” I pull out my headset transmitter and earpiece receiver. “You remember this.” I hand it to him. “This is just a receiver, no microphone. That means that for me to help you I have to stay close enough to hear what you hear.”

“Right, it’s an in-ear monitor.”

“Exactly.”

“Why not two-way?”

“For your privacy. I usually do this for people whose security clearance is higher than mine.”

All three of them are looking suitably impressed.

“The last thing is also a big part of my diplomatic jobs. If you want me to, I can suggest topics of conversation or even specific things to say based on my research, to help your interactions go as well as possible. Some clients like that. But I have to warn you, it’s a lot to deal with listening to that while you are having a conversation with someone else. It’s up to you.”

“Like telling me to say that love is universal. That suggestion was perfect.”

That pleases me, but I shake my head. “What was perfect was how you used it. You related it to your work, so your conversation was authentic. That’s how you want to do this. That went great. The more we work together, the better we’ll get.”

“I think that I can handle that. I’ll take any help you can give me.”

“OK. We’ll take it slow, see how it goes.”

I look around. “Any questions?” Judging from the looks on their faces, they aren’t used to somebody, at least not some young woman, coming into their circle and taking the helm like I just did. It always makes me feel a tiny bit smug to be so competent in a group of men. They are all shaking their heads that they have no questions.

“Then I’ll brief you on a few people on the way over. The rest will just be on the fly.”

The men stand. Adam holds out his hand to help me up, unnecessarily, but I take it anyway. Adam looks very pleased with the situation and squeezes my hand. “Ready, partner?” he says.

Aww, that’s sweet. “Let’s do it.”

I spend the day just behind Adam’s shoulder, whispering in his ear. Even though I knew the itinerary, I’m still overwhelmed by how the day is just madness, one thing after another rapid-fire. So many people demanding his attention. He is expected to win at least Vocal Performance of the Year tomorrow, maybe Song of the Year too, and everyone wants a piece of him.

I start with just interpreting. I do it real-time, as people are speaking. He has no trouble keeping up. I start to add some facts and figures. I can see he’s taking them in. The first time I hear a loaded question and I know what the angle is, I suggest an answer. He delivers it in his own words and voice, just right. I’m going to get to do my job at my maximum, which is how I like it.

It doesn’t take long for me to notice that Adam is extremely considerate of his entourage. He does indeed have a team of stylists that swoops in from time to time between interviews and introductions. He stands patiently, looking out over the swarm of little hands reaching up into his personal space, while they blot and pat and polish his face and his hair, tucking this, buttoning that. He always says thank you. He listens respectfully while a clipboard-wielding handler points him this way and that. When people hand him water and snacks, he makes sure we all get them.

Soon enough, though, the star comes out. We are outside for photography and it’s only 15 degrees, damp and cold even for Moscow in December. I have a coat and hat on and I’m freezing. They have him in the snow in tight black damask pants and a black silk shirt so thin that I can see his nipples through it. But he doesn’t complain at all, about the cold or the clothes. Another great look, though. It shows what good shape he’s in. The stylists know what they are doing.

So does he. He works the camera and presents in quick succession all of the angles of his face that they want. Chin up, chin down, lips together, lips parted, look at the camera, lower your eyes. He makes the poses they request and smiles, pouts, flirts, smolders, or outright seduces on demand. To my surprise, some of his looks are so hot it seems the snow could melt and flowers sprout. He is really putting it out there, “it” being a primal sexuality that I would not have guessed he had in him. There was absolutely no hint of this side of him previously. Everyone in the vicinity is transfixed. I try to keep my face neutral and hide how awkward I feel. He is commanding attention, creating different images, ignoring the misery of freezing for the cameras.

Fortunately, we are out for less than 15 minutes and then back in and we’re getting herded from place to place like cattle. Other than during the shoot, I hardly have time to look at him. There are a few moments for chit-chat, but not many. I’m intensely busy interpreting everything that is coming at him into Russian. I use English when I don’t want to be overheard. It feels like being in front of a firing squad, only it’s questions and photography and autograph requests that are flying instead of bullets. This is much more intense than the relative calm of the diplomatic meetings and summits I normally attend. Even the N-POWER summit was leisurely in comparison, although the members doubtless had to go through things like this that I didn’t see.

I keep my head down, and my mind sharp. I pull the brim of my cap down low, watching and listening from just behind his arm, my eyes darting from face to face as people move in range. It is challenging and exhilarating. In turn, he is doing a great job taking in everything I’m telling him, addressing people by their names, answering their questions, staying out of their traps. He mentions bits of trivia that I feed him and remembers for himself when and where he has met people before.

He faces each new interviewer attentively as they come at him one after another, asking about the nominations, about his upcoming world tour, which kicks off in Omsk in a few weeks, personal questions that he deflects. He’s using more mental energy than I am and looking stunning and composed while doing it.

And all this with fans screaming his name from the sidelines everywhere we go. I have never seen this kind of thing in person. He waves and blows kisses to them and seems to genuinely appreciate them. With all that adoration, his ego should be enormous, but it doesn’t seem to be. In fact, he’s so humble and generous that at times he seems like he’s in service to the people around him rather than the converse. He accepts the praise that is being constantly poured on him with grace. His thanks are always sincere, even though he is clearly confident in his abilities and doesn’t pretend he hasn’t earned it.

I have interpreted at big events for a lot of people and I have never seen a VIP treat absolutely everyone so consistently well, much less under so much pressure. It’s hard to believe it’s real, but that kind of thing can’t be faked that consistently for that long. After 10 hours of this, I understand his friends’ devotion. It’s actually kind of ridiculous that he would have such excellent character in addition to everything else.

By 9 pm we finally get to head back to the hotel. We are all exhausted and my voice is just about kaput from whispering in his ear all day. We climb in the van, he next to his dad and me opposite him and next to Rashid.

As soon as the door shuts, I have to speak. I don’t normally flatter, but my good impressions have been building up all day and I haven’t had a chance to say anything.

“I have to say, I am really surprised. You were so gracious today, to everyone, all day.”

His father looks pleased to hear me say that. I can see that Adam is touched but he doesn’t say thank you. He just proves my point by saying, just as sincerely as I did, “You did an incredible job. That was just...” he shakes his head, at a loss for words. “... amazing. It was like having an extra brain. I will feel stupid doing this without you now.”

“You are definitely not stupid. Most people couldn’t keep up with all that.” I laugh. In addition to being unrealistically handsome, apparently inhumanly talented, and endowed with excellent character, he’s also sharp as tack. “Your secret flaws must be terrible.”

“Oh, they are,” he agrees, while Ismail and Rashid jump in, teasing him, talking over each other with their recitations of the ways in which Adam is most assuredly not perfect.

“Don’t be deceived – “ his father starts.

“ – he’s extremely jealous, – “ Rashid joins in.

“ – he’s very stubborn. And vain. – “

“ – possessive, controlling. – “

“ – He’s messy. He sleeps all day. – “

“ – Don’t interrupt him while he’s working, or else – “

“ – He expects everyone to do everything for him – “

Adam nods in resignation, letting his friend and father diss him, until that last one, when he says “Alright, enough!”

He’s still in good humor, though. Despite the criticism, it’s clear how much they love and respect him. Having people like this around all the time is probably exactly what keeps him so down to earth with the overabundance of gifts God has given him. It’s heartwarming.

We are all laughing. I say, “I just figured you were just an axe murderer on the side.”

“I prefer to slay on stage,” he responds, with a wink.

I start organizing my bag and the three men start talking about their days. They are still using Russian to be polite to me. I tell them they can use Sanzhar; I’m exhausted from listening and their conversation doesn’t concern me. They do, and their consonant-laden chatter sounds to me like rain on the roof. It’s pleasant.

As we approach the hotel, Adam switches back to Russian. “We’re getting dinner here. Would you join us?” It’s a considerate offer, but I’m tired and I still have to research some of the people I have learned we’ll be encountering tomorrow.

“Thank you, but I still have work to do. Besides, I’m pretty sure we’ve heard enough of each other’s voices for one day.”

“You must know that is the worst possible thing you could say to a singer.” He’s joking.

I laugh again. “Well, I’ve never heard you sing, so don’t take it that way.” Adam does not look surprised. If anything he appears to have suspected it. He’s looking at me through narrowed eyes, thinking something.

It is a bit odd, I realize, that I have extensively researched all the media here and learned enough about Adam’s career to help him navigate their questions but haven’t actually investigated Adam’s performances. Especially with my new found YouTube music video habit. Maybe I was avoiding it because of all the hype.

Rashid can’t believe it. “You’ve been in Izmir since July and you haven’t heard him sing? That’s impossible!” He thinks for a moment. “He sang at Lukpan’s wedding.”

Adam is still looking at me inscrutably. “She left before that.”

He asks, “What kind of music do you listen to?”

This could be awkward, as I have picked up that his genre appears to be somewhat indefinable but is generally rock, which is not my favorite, with elements of other things. “Classical mostly, and jazz. Then a mix of pretty much everything else. I don’t care that much about the genre as long as it’s beautiful and performed well.” Adam and Rashid exchange a look. Ismail is engrossed scrolling on his phone screen. Adam isn’t quite suppressing a smile but something is going on there.

“Why don’t you come to the show in Omsk? I’ll get you a backstage pass. Everyone is coming, all our friends.” He gestures between himself and Rashid. “Amelia will be on keys, of course. Rashid will be working sound. It will be fun.”

Of course I knew that the extended group was going. Amelia had already offered me a ticket. I hadn’t decided, but I can’t exactly say no to the star himself, and I have to admit I’m curious after hearing dozens of entertainment journalists gush over his voice today. Plus, a backstage pass to a giant stadium show sounds pretty cool. “I’d be honored. Thank you.”

“I have a condition, though.”

My ears prick up. When my clients make me offers with conditions, the conditions are often not very appropriate. And we are pulling up to a hotel at night. Then again, his dad is sitting right there. “What?”

He looks down almost shyly. “Don’t listen to me before then. Don’t watch any videos. Wait for the concert.”

Rashid shakes his head. “Not fair, Adam.”

Adam grins in response. Well, that’s intriguing.

“I can do that,” I answer.

He looks satisfied. “Amelia will get you everything you need.”

I see that Ismail is off his phone and is giving his son a hard look. His son is a little too generous with the backstage passes, it seems. 


	8. Cho-Ji Again!

The next morning, I accompany Adam to some radio shows and feed him what useful trivia I have unearthed. It goes well. That afternoon, a giant hall has been dedicated to the press covering the awards. Major media outlets have mini soundstages set up and the entertainers are making the rounds. It’s like a convention. Tons of entertainment reporters are milling the hall trying to catch sound bites while the artists move through. Seeing shows like this on TV gives a hint of how loud and chaotic it is, but it’s something else to be behind the scenes. 

Before long, I spot N-POWER . These awards must be an even bigger deal than I thought if they are in attendance. I am inappropriately giddy. Today their pants are all different candy colors and they are all wearing slightly varied bedazzled white jackets. A wandering photographer from Vogue who already talked with Adam is trying to talk with them. She only speaks French and it doesn’t look like they can communicate. N-POWER has twice as many staff as members here but somehow, apparently, none speak French. 

Trying to sound casual, I ask Adam if I can help them out. He walks me over. I think he’s excited to use me as an excuse to meet them. I tell a Korean staffer that I am Adam’s interpreter. She recognizes Adam and that’s all the credentials we need. Adam and I are ushered past the perimeter and over to the members. I do my part, and then there’s a moment for Adam and the members to meet, while the photographer captures it.

The English-speaking N-POWER guys are busy raving about his voice – their main vocalist tells Adam how jealous he is – and congratulating him on his nominations. He’s flattered that they know who he is and thanks them with that humility I’m starting to expect from him. They are nominated in their genre too, of course, and are certain to win. 

While they speak English, Song Cho-Ji greets me. “Aren’t you the interpreter from Rome? The genius who can’t ride a horse?” 

He remembers me! I’m amazed. Maybe stars really are just like us. The pink hair is gone, replaced by a more natural seeming reddish blonde. Well, not natural for a Korean, but at least a human color much like my own. Bright blue contacts. He is a confection, adorable and charming and incredibly cute this afternoon. I offer a prayer of thanks for my training. I’m not going to babble like the fangirl I am becoming. 

“Hi, yes, I am.” I sound professional. “Nice to see you again.”

“You too! Have you learned German yet?”

“In the last month? No, I can’t say I have. How’s your English?”

“No better.” 

“Language goals.” I’m teasing.

“Don’t you work for the American embassy in Rome? How are you with Adam?” Even with that innocent question, he’s simultaneously channeling cute boy and sex God. His lips are pillowy, pink, seriously suckable. Certain sequences from certain videos are playing in my mind. His nipples were not concealed behind a shirt in a few frames of the most recent one.

“I actually work for the American embassy in Sanzharistan. Rome was a special assignment. I’m just on loan this weekend too.”

“You speak Sanzhar too?”

“Actually no. I’m just parked there until they can move me to Moscow.”

“Ahhh, I see.” He doesn’t, though, because it doesn’t make any sense.

“No you don’t.”

He laughs. “No, I don’t.”

“Were you happy with how Rome turned out?”

“We will get to perform for our fans all over the world next year. That’s what it’s all about.”

“Adam loves his fans too.”

“He’ll win tonight.”

“That’s what everybody is saying about you guys.”

“I hope so. Hey, look. Our hair is the same color!” I’m confused until I realize that my bun has come loose under my hat, as it sometimes does as the day wears on. My hair is spilling out. I take my hat off and pull out my hair tie, realizing immediately that there is no way I can reassemble my bun in the middle of a conversation with Song Cho-Ji. My composure is shattered. I’m having a coiffure catastrophe in front of one of the most polished people on the planet. “Um...”

He’s grinning at me in amusement. “Look how cute you are. I love your glasses. May I?” He plucks them right off my face and puts them on. I’m dumbfounded. While they just look big and frumpy on me, the big rose-colored frameless lenses transform into haute couture on him and he increases their value about 500%. I’m staring, of course. He makes a silly, camera-ready face pose. 

Then, oddly, the look vanishes. He’s looking at my face very closely, much like he did in Rome. 

“What’s your name?” he asks. I’m dazzled.

“Kate Connor.” 

“Song Cho-Ji.” He bows, now greeting me appropriately for a man of his culture.

I appropriately nod back, but I can’t help snorting at the ridiculous notion that I wouldn’t know his name. He laughs too.

The Vogue photographer is immediately in our faces while, of course, cameras from all sides are snapping images of the magnificent Cho-Ji interacting with a mere mortal. 

In a flash, he puts his arm around my waist and pulls me tight against his side. It is very unlike a Korean to invade anyone’s personal space that way, much less touch a stranger, but the normal rules of etiquette don’t apply to stars like Cho-Ji at events like this. I feel his smooth, perfect skin as he presses his cheek against mine and makes the little heart sign with his finger and thumb in front of our chins. He’s modeling, and he’s even faster and more of a pro than Adam. Just as quickly, I’m released. 

It’s two seconds but I’m dizzy from it. He hands me back my glasses and winks at me as he is led off. “See ya later, cu-tie Ka-tie!” he calls out in English over his shoulder. 

That guy is ridiculously attractive. Like made-in-a-laboratory attractive. (Well, he’s a South Korean idol, it’s not likely all his parts are completely organic.) Damn, that body. That face. That charisma. That everything. He’s a good height for me too, probably 5’10”. Perfect for making out with up against a wall. Yikes, I’m surprised at myself. The photographer shoves a tablet at me and I sign what I assume is a release. Adam notices my brush with serious fame and smiles at my good fortune.

After the junket we’re off to get Adam ready for the show. A group of stylists is assembled again. They do his hair and makeup and dress him up in those same black pants and shirt paired with the combat boots and some crazy designer long leather coat. They top it off with a pair of $1,000 sunglasses that make my glasses look frumpy again. He looks nothing like the N-POWER guys. He is dark, glamorous, edgy.

I follow on the red carpet as he takes on the gauntlet of award show hosts in their tuxedos and evening gowns. Most speak Russian but I get to help out with my other skills. It’s still cold, and I’m happy he has the coat now. Tonight he looks more like a rock star than I could have imagined. The look actually seems a little incongruous with his personality now that I have spent a day and a half with him. I don’t know what to make of it. It’s like he’s at least two different people. I wonder which one sings.

He is serene and unflappable in the face of fans screaming hysterically, even crying, some looking a bit scary. He seems like he adores them as much as they adore him. He shakes their hands, signs autographs, and takes selfies with them until the handlers drag him into the auditorium. We don’t get to say goodbye. Since I can’t go in there was no reason for me to stay another night. There will be an afterparty but he wasn’t going to need me for that. I leave for my flight home. 

I watch some of the awards show on TV in the airport. It turns out I can’t completely keep my promise. I hear a 10-second clip of the song he is nominated for. I’m super impressed. I can’t describe the genre. It’s like pop, rock, classical, even electronica all seamlessly rolled into one. But his voice is what I can’t believe. Even through a tinny airport TV speaker, it is deep, powerful, and resonant and then switches on a dime to soaring and achingly beautiful, like, my heart actually constricts for a second. It’s just a tiny taste, but it’s spectacular. 

The camera cuts to him listening and then nodding and bowing his thanks to the audience, his hands pressed together like a prayer, when the auditorium erupts into applause. They love him in Russia. He wins, which seems like a foregone conclusion after that clip. He gives a lovely speech in Russian that the interpreter into English totally botches. 

I am definitely going to that concert.


	9. Back to Diplomacy

Christmas is depressing when you don’t have any family and all your newish friends are Muslim. So it’s nice to have the concert to look forward to. 

I’m at my desk translating a rice crop yield report from Chinese into English. It’s the sort of work that can almost be done by an auto translator, but this was drafted by an agricultural undersecretary who is suspected of not being wholly supportive of the communist regime, so the tone and nuance could reveal some clues. I have to do it. It’s very long and boring and will take me a couple of days. But I can’t go on autopilot. I have to pay close attention to my word choice and annotate sections that might have hidden meaning or suggest ways someone in the field might get friendly with the author. 

Honestly, the price of rice in China is something that does have geopolitical consequence. The report will go off to analysts who will decide what the report means. They will report to intelligence officials who will decide whether any action needs to be taken. Then field agents may or may not be deployed, or it might go back to the diplomatic corps. Or, more likely, it will turn out that this is nothing but a factual report with nothing even remotely titillating in it.

While I’m working on fertilizer concentrations and grain weights, Robert stops by. A meeting has just ended about airline terminal access fees in China. Thrilling! The Chinese team’s interpreter left with their bosses, so I’m needed at an impromptu post-mortem between a few lower-level Chinese and American aides. So off I go, glad my Chinese got a workout at the Victorias. It’s typical work. The only thing that interests me is that it looks like whatever they decided will result in commercial airline fares going down. So visiting China, something I’d like to do while I’m here, just got cheaper.

The one intriguing thing going on at work is that the embassy seems to want to introduce me to a lot of people for no particular reason. Sometimes these people come to Izmir and we have vague, pointless lunches. Sometimes I travel to them, lunch in some curry shop somewhere in Russia, or Ukraine, even Mongolia. They are just random staffers, attachés, aides of various sorts. We get acquainted and that’s it. I suppose it’s good that the embassy is helping me make contacts with people who are posted in less obscure locations, but it seems odd work for an interpreter. Of course, everything about my being posted in Sanzharistan is odd. So I plan to just wait it out until I get transferred and start my career for real.

I keep thinking about the Victorias weekend. It was some of the hardest work I’ve ever done. I thought entertainment work would be fluff, but it was extremely mentally challenging to juggle so many languages and so much information in such a rapid-fire environment. I felt sharp, and on the ball, which is my favorite way to feel. 

It was exciting too. While the diplomatic work I am around is certainly important, it’s pretty mundane. It’s mostly trade arrangements. Price supports, import quotas, tariffs. Sometimes scientific or cultural matters, information exchanges, research sharing. Military, intelligence, and security work is above my pay grade. The Victorias weren’t necessarily important in the geopolitical sense, but things like that are culturally important, and it was just so glamorous. Being right there in the thick of it, so close to a rising star that I could smell him (admittedly more so as the day wore on) stimulated me in a way that could never be matched by hiding in the shadows against the wall of a conference room, without even a seat at the table. Not to mention my brief brush with an even bigger star.

And my role mattered. Adam and I really were a team out there. Quite a good one, actually. I had been skeptical about them really needing my services for an awards show, but there’s no way he could have done what he did without me or someone like me. In the days after our return I kept my promise not to look up any of his music, but I googled the hell out of the media coverage of the weekend. 

He made a fantastic impression on everyone. Entertainment journalists in many parts of the world reported his win of Vocal Performance of the Year. While they raved about his vocal ability and beauty, they also remarked on his graciousness and poise. That’s obviously all him, but he was able to show his personality to far more of them than he otherwise would have because of me. Having me in his ear helped him manage the madness around him, which helped him stay relaxed, which allowed him to show his best side. That’s exactly what my job is supposed to do at its best. It feels good.

Afterward, features about his career started cropping up in new markets, South America, African countries where he is largely unknown. Photos of the snow shoot were everywhere. I see now why he endured it. The high-contrast photos are even more stunning than the real thing was, his hair and eyes blacker against the snowy backdrop. Some filter has made him look like he’s in a movie, not quite real. It’s just hard enough to tell whether or not his nipples are visible through that filmy shirt that I am sure that thousands of woman-hours will be spent scrutinizing the photos and debating it. 

He is seductive, provocative, and tempting without being at all lurid. Exactly the intended effect. The things his eyes are suggesting to the camera would be highly inappropriate in our professional relationship. I’m almost embarrassed to look at them. Well done, photographers! Dilshad must have sent those photos to every media outlet in the entire world, doubtless making hearts flutter everywhere. Adam is getting this attention from so many of these outlets because he charmed them with my help. The weekend was a huge win for him, and I actually played a part. 

The awards show coverage itself was full of photos of him humbly accepting his award and walking the red carpet, which I now think of more as a media gauntlet from hell. To my amusement I see myself in the background in many of those. I’m just a little black shadow with nothing visible but a nose and chin, unrecognizable and unobtrusive, but if I do this kind of work again, I’ll have to learn to stay out of frame. Tough when he’s being shot from every angle.

Speaking of which, I don’t end up appearing in Vogue, but I discover that I have appeared on Cho-Ji’s fan pages. I see why the photographer took the shots of us. We are a compare and contrast study. The contrasts are me in black, him in white. Him in my big rosy glasses, me not. Me bare faced, him glowing and dewy in soft lip gloss and eyeliner. Male, female. European, Asian. My hair is messy wild curls, his smooth and perfect. But the comparison is also striking. Our hair color and eye color (mine natural, his definitely not) are almost identical. The shapes of our faces and lips are surprisingly similar. Oh, I didn’t need to know that about our lips. We are wearing matching smiles. His finger heart is perfectly positioned exactly under our chins like we are two flowers on a single stem, our cheeks pressed together. We look adorable. 

I save half a dozen different angles I find online. Fans are questioning who I am. There is even some speculation; we look so cute together, could there be anything going on? They find more photos from the awards show of me with Adam and figure out that I was working for him. More speculation.

Yes, I have to admit that working in the entertainment industry has more going for it than I would have thought. Of course, my work at the embassy does matter too. The effects are just a lot more remote. I’m interpreting in meetings and sometimes get to contribute a useful tidbit into whoever’s ear I happen to be in, but these meetings are generally researched to death ahead of time by analysts and there’s little I know that the people who have a seat at the table haven’t already been briefed on. Maybe I contribute something that means farmers in another country get a penny more per ton of whatever their crop is. That can mean a lot to a family farm, but my part of it is just a tiny drop in the bucket.

I’m not one of the analysts. Although my PhD in international relations could have led me down that path, being a polyglot makes me more valuable for interpretation and translations. It’s a much more limited range of activities. The other potential path is, frankly, espionage. That is still an option at my age. The work itself is sometimes more impactful, and of course the field agent is critical to the operation. I’m not the kind of person they would station in a foreign corporation. They’d use me for things with a higher excitement factor. However, that kind of excitement sometimes comes in the form of real bullets, which I would rather avoid. Being fired at by entertainment media is a lot safer. 

And in the couple of conversations I have had with people in the Foreign Service about that path, they have made it pretty clear that the agencies would not hesitate to leverage all of my assets, which would have me in situations with certain men that I probably would not very much like. As far as I know, working as staff in the entertainment industry doesn’t generally require that you sleep with disgusting people. 

Still, I can’t help but fantasize for a bit about a scenario in which I seem to be a lowly interpreter for an international celebrity, but I’m really a spy who exchanges her headset for a Walther PPK at night. Forget it. I’d never get to sleep. Back to the rice report.


	10. New Year's Eve

While my work life remains dull as dirt, Adam’s team has been getting excited about the first leg of his world tour. This is going to be their biggest year ever. Over five weeks in January and February they will playing eight shows in Asia and Eastern Europe. This is where he is already most popular, so he’ll be starting on comfortable territory. But it’s still going to be intense. 

Sadly, this means that my new social life has also gone quiet, while the performers are putting in long hours of rehearsals and the staff is working just as hard. Because hospitality is so central to this culture, I’m still receiving the occasional dinner invitation from the folks who aren’t part of the team, but since Amelia is the glue that connects me to them, I don’t feel that comfortable. I accept anyway.

The one exciting exception is that I get to go to a big New Year’s Eve party. Other than Adam, everyone I know is there, as well as lots of people I don’t know. Adam has been gone basically the entire past month recording all those holiday specials around Asia and Eastern Europe, culminating in tonight’s events. He would be here except that he is headlining some countdown thing in China. How bizarre to have somebody casually mention that my acquaintance is helping to ring in the New Year for nearly a billion people.

A little before ten o’clock, people gather around a TV to watch the ball drop in Beijing. Adam is about to sing. At the last moment, I remember my promise not to listen to him before the concert, so I reluctantly head off to another area. I’m dying of curiosity, especially when all the cheers break out. He killed it, evidently. The party is in full swing at eleven, when Rashid’s phone starts getting passed around. Adam has called in to the party. After a bit, someone tells me he asking for me. I’m surprised, but I take the phone. He’s speaking English.

“Happy New Year, Katya!” Even though it is 1:30 in Beijing, he sounds full of energy. 

“Hi, happy New Year to you too. How’s Beijing?”

“Fun. Everyone always treats me very well here. I saw some friends who I have not seen in very long time.”

“That’s nice to hear. We’re having fun here too. This is a great party.”

“Is it? Can you describe it for me?”

That’s a weird request. “What do you want to know?”

“Everything. I want... tell me everything that you see. Don’t leave anything out.”

I’m puzzled. “Uh, OK. I am trained to be very thorough.”

“Perfect. Wait, I’m putting in earbuds. OK. Go.” 

I’m actually well equipped for this. When I joined the Foreign Service, more than anything, my Spy 101 training focused on learning how to observe everything and remember things without writing them down. They taught me tricks for listening carefully and remembering what I hear verbatim or close to it. When I enter a room, to note how many windows there are, how many doors and what rooms they lead to. How many people are in a room, who stands where and who talks with whom. Who is drinking and who is staying sober. Where security personnel are, how are they armed, who or what they are guarding. Where the visible cameras are. Where the invisible cameras probably are. The very basic things that anyone in the Foreign Service needs to be able to do. I won’t miss anything at this party.

I put on my Spy 101 glasses and tell him everything I see and hear. It’s actually kind of fun. I walk around the room, describing the décor, the food, the lights, the music, the people dancing or sitting at tables, what his friends are doing. I get detailed, where the windows and doors are, the kinds of things I would try to remember if I were going to be debriefed. I paint a vivid picture. 

While I talk, I hear what sounds like him leaving a boisterous event of his own, murmuring “yes, goodbye,” “thank you,” “I’m on the phone,” a few times. I hear a car door shut and then it’s quiet. I assume he’s on his way back to his hotel. While I talk, he doesn’t say anything other than the occasional “uh-huh” and “go on.” 

“So, that’s about it.”

“That was perfect. Thank you.” The energy has subsided. Now he sounds relaxed, sleepy.

“Why did you ask me to do that?”

“I’m homesick.” I hear what I assume is his hotel room door closing.

“I mean why not one of your friends?”

“Are we not friends?”

What? No, we’re not. We worked together a day and half. “Uhhhh...”

He laughs. Ah, he’s messing with me. “I knew you will do it best. Also I like you to talk in my ear.”

So weird! I laugh too. “Have you been drinking?”

“I don’t drink.”

“Oh. I don’t either.”

“I know.”

“When do you come home?”

“Tomorrow, God willing. A month away is too long. I must take these opportunities, though.” Sound of the lid being screwed off of something fizzy. He takes a sip.

“I hear a close to a billion people just watched that show. I can’t even imagine that.”

“I can’t either. I don’t. I just do the best that I can for the people in front of me.” There’s a pause. “Did you watch?”

“No, I told you I wouldn’t.”

“Good. Did you get your pass for the concert?”

“Not yet. I think Amelia has it.”

“Make sure you get it.”

“I will. Who do you want next?”

“Nobody. I’m going to bed now. Good night.”

I give Rashid back his phone. Amelia looks at me quizzically and asks what Adam and I talked about for so long. She seems just as mystified by the little audio tour as I am. Saraiya rolls her eyes at us both but says nothing.

The party really is fun. For once I’m actually getting some attention from some worthwhile men. I dance with a couple of guys and have a couple of reasonably interesting conversations. But nothing comes of it. Nobody asks me for my phone number, and of course I can’t ask for theirs. I don’t get it. It seems like they are pumping Rashid for information; maybe he’s saying something that warns them off me. I see him chatting with the most interesting of them. Rashid is laughing, shaking his head and shrugging helplessly while the guy glances over at me with a not very pleased look. And that’s it. He doesn’t come back. Was this going on at Lukpan and Elena’s wedding too?

I find Amelia and ask.

“Is your husband cockblocking me?” The Russian word for that is exactly the same, but comes off less vulgar.

She tilts her head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Every guy who seems interested in me disappears after they talk to him. What is he doing?”

“Why would he do anything?” She seems like she really doesn’t know. 

It would make a bit of sense for Rashid to interfere. In this culture, and in traditional Islam generally, every woman has some man who is more or less in charge of her. Here, Rashid is the most likely candidate to be my “guardian.” I, however, am a very independent woman and I’m not used to anyone other than me having any say about anything in my personal life. Nor do I know why he would object to any of these men. They seem nice enough, and they are part of the extended friend group. I’m not very happy about it, but this party is not the place to make a fuss. 

Amelia distracts me by giving me my all-access pass for Omsk, which is two weeks away now. She’s pleased Adam gave it to me. This is, evidently, a rare treat. I tell her how Ismail didn’t seem to like it when Adam offered it to me. She’s not sure I am judging Ismail correctly but she doesn’t offer any alternatives. This leads me to tell her all about that weekend, how overwhelming it was, how crowded, how I got to meet N-POWER again. She has seen plenty of those gauntlets before. As always, there’s no talking about Adam behind his back, so all I say is that his character impressed me. Well of course it did, her shrug responds. 

She is so ready for the tour to start. When Adam gets back tomorrow, he’ll start rehearsing with the team in earnest. There will be precious little socializing until they get back in seven weeks. The Omsk show is going to be filmed for TV. It’s going to be particularly something, so everyone in the extended group is going. We’re all going to stay at a hotel near the arena. They booked the rooms weeks ago, and nearby hotels are surely sold out by now. Another kind soul offers to let me share her room, so I’m all set.


	11. The Omsk Concert Is Not Fair

In the lead up to the concert, I get to babysit Amelia and Rashid’s kids a couple of times. Even though they have plenty of family for that job, they seem to feel that a woman my age should have a lot more experience with kids than I do. I really do love kids. Since I have no family, I intend to make my own by having at least three. Not quite sure how I’m going to swing that, though. My career is no more family-friendly than my Dad’s was. 

Picking up and dropping off the kids gives me a chance to peek in at the tour preparations a couple of times. Stage rehearsals are in a big gym. The scale is much more than I expected. Ten dancers and ten musicians, plus Adam, are on a “stage” taped on the floor. For some reason there’s a trampoline and suspension cables. Is his show a circus? The crew is much more than I expected. Costumers, hair, makeup, choreographers, dance and vocal coaches, lighting, sound, stage effects, pyrotechnics, camera crew, roadies, all learning their parts for the tour. Vanya is doing official photography, Saraiya documenting it all for social media. I find that the show even has a literal “director” who tells everyone what to do; he even has an assistant of his own. He’s putting them all through their paces. 

It’s nice to spend a few minutes with Amelia and Rashid in these moments. I get to wave at my friends and even Adam a couple of times. 

Finally it’s concert day. I’m a lot more excited than I thought I would be. That clip was tantalizing, rehearsals looked epic, my friends are performing along with the star, and something like 20 members of our extended group are going. We catch a mid-morning flight. Omsk is only about two hours away. Many of our friends are decked out in Adam t-shirts and other paraphernalia. They are here to enjoy the show and support him and they have no reservations whatsoever about it. I envy their lack of inhibition. I could never wear a T-shirt with a friend’s picture on it. 

On the plane, it’s apparent that a large number of the other passengers are there for the same purpose. The flight attendants are powerless to stop people singing/screaming Adam’s songs and being generally raucous. The drinks are flowing before noon. It’s an airborne party bus. Pity the passenger who is not there for him. 

I do notice that there is an unspoken rule. Not one person in our group drops even the slightest hint that we know Adam or any of the performers personally. We’re just fans. When it comes out that I have never heard Adam sing, the passengers are beside themselves with disbelief. They amuse themselves by calling me an Adam “virgin.” I have to make up excuses to stop them from playing any of his songs for me. They try to ply me with drinks, and I get to amuse them by saying my drinks have to be virgin too. 

As an American, my entry into Russia is more complicated than it is for the Sanzhars, but they all wait for me. We caravan to the hotel and get ready. I still can’t bring myself to wear any of the Adam gear my roommate offers me, so it’s jeans and a red sweater for me.

We get to the venue about an hour before the doors open. More than a thousand people have already lined up. At least 80% women. These are the die-hard fans, the ones who were screaming at him from the sidelines at the Victorias. Their fervor is intimidating. As we line up, I pull out the all-access pass and lanyard Amelia gave me, only to discover that while some of the others got their tickets comped by our friends, I am the only one who has been given a ticket by the star himself, much less a full pass. None of our group is jealous; they are excited for me to have such a special treat. They urge me to go in. 

As accustomed as I am to being alone, this is so unfamiliar that I really wish I had someone to go with me. So rather than head in immediately, I hang out with my friends while thousands more people assemble outside and the atmosphere becomes frenzied. Once they open the doors, I screw up my courage and ask venue staff where to go. One of them escorts me to the VIP entrance. The waiting fans look at me and my all-access pass like vultures. One fanatical-looking woman yells out that she’ll give me the rubles equivalent of $1,000 for it. She has tears in her eyes. I stare at her, wide-eyed.

“All access” means I have free range of the entire warren of corridors and rooms below the floor level, all lined with framed photos of artists who have performed here over the decades. I also have access to the true backstage area and, right now, even the stage itself if I dared set foot on it. I don’t. It’s blanketed in crew doing final equipment checks, checking the taped-down cables and so forth. I make my way downstairs and head toward where all the commotion seems to be. It’s barely controlled chaos. I can hear musicians warming up in various rooms, instruments, voices, and see little groups of people flocking from place to place. Many are wearing lanyards and passes that look like mine; others have the same thing in a different color. I see people I recognize from rehearsals. Dancers in costume. 

I follow the warming-up voices and find Amelia and Lukpan getting ready with some other musicians who I don’t know. Various other people are milling around; lots of greetings and hugs, people on their cell phones, lots of pictures being taken. The energy is ramped way up. The room, like the other rooms I have passed, is a mess. There’s stuff just everywhere. Hair stuff, makeup stuff, bags, equipment and instrument cases, coats, other clothes, papers, food, drink. It’s an explosion. It’s also loud. The whole scene is overwhelming. 

I make my way to my friends and receive excited squealing hugs from both of them while they introduce me to the musicians I don’t know. I don’t want to keep them, so I just wish them a good show. They tell me I have to go say hi to Adam. I’m reluctant; surely, he has far too much going on right now to deal with yet another person. But they say I really must, and they send me down the hall.

From the doorway I see that his green room is similar but furnished much more comfortably. It is also completely decorated in fan club splendor. There are posters of him taped to the walls, streamers and balloons, signs with his name in LED lights. A table has been set up with all kinds of snacks. Another is covered in gifts for him, more piled up on the floor around it. There are flowers everywhere. Mirrors and lights, his own hair and makeup station and stylists to go with it. The whole room is a shrine to him. Wow. How on earth does a person deal with that?

And there he is. He’s in full rock-star regalia, all custom black leather over a white t-shirt, zippers and studs. He is styled sexy and dangerous for the first set, dark bedroom hair falling over his eyes, like an anime hero. These stylists really know how to create an effect. I have to admit that he looks very hot. Otherwise, he seems like himself. He is gathering himself in preparation. He’s standing quietly in the middle of a swarm of attendants, eyes closed, arms out, taking slow, deep breaths. His stillness is a stark contrast to the people buzzing around him adjusting his hair, stage makeup, clothes, securing the receiver for his in-ear monitors behind his back. It’s almost showtime.

The solar system metaphor could not be more on display. He is the star at the center of everything. All the planets are in here orbiting him furiously: his family, Rashid, Dilshad on his phone, those other friends from the wedding, other people who look rich and important. A couple of faces I vaguely recognize as being Russian celebrities. Reporters. Still more moons are attending to the planets. I have no business in this room. I slip away quietly and head back out to find my seat.

It’s a good one, on the floor near the center, right in front of the control booth with its massive mixing board and crew. The standing room zone up by the stage is separated from these few rows of seats by a barricade, so my view is unobstructed. Our friends are scattered around the arena. I’m the only one here, tucked in among strangers. After a few minutes, I see Adam’s family and Rashid go into the booth behind me. Rashid sees me and gives a thumbs up. He’s focused on getting the show started. 

The lights have gone down and the anticipation in the room is at a fever pitch. I have only heard the clip from the awards show. I kept my word and will really hear him for the first time live. I’m not sure what to expect. I’m very excited, but deep down, I’m afraid that he won’t live up to the hype or that I won’t like it, and that’s making me tense and nervous, whether for him or me, I don’t know. I feel a hint of that tension throughout the room.

The band is playing the music for his entrance. The audience is chanting his name. The stage is backed by a giant array of floor-to-ceiling screens flashing his name and face. It’s surreal. Then he appears out of the dark, rising out of the stage at the end of the catwalk. The spotlight comes on. Fireworks erupt. The crowd goes wild and he launches into his first song. 

It’s epic, like a blockbuster movie theme song. He lives up to the hype. The vocals are truly unreal. 

The show has about 25 songs in Sanzhar, Russian, and English. There’s a good amount of rock, almost symphonic metal, complex arrangements overlaid with his soaring acrobatic vocals. But there’s a lot more. There’s a mix of beautiful ballads that I love, weird dated second-world music that makes me cringe, and contemporary pop that is actually fun and danceable. Pyrotechnics, dancers, an all-out extravaganza. The costumes and staging change to reflect the different moods of each set. The trampoline does in fact get used, and at some points dancers hang from the cables and perform aerially. 

About three songs in, I swear he has worked magic. I don’t know how to explain it. The tension that I felt at first seems to have melted away from the entire room as he glides into a gentle love song and the audience falls silent. Everyone is totally in the moment. The audience is spellbound, captivated, completely in love with him, utterly at his command. Their faces are shining with adoration like they are at a church revival. He’s the wind over a sea of grass, an orchestra conductor, making everyone sway and flow and feel in perfect unison. I feel myself under his spell too. 

His voice really is from heaven, transcendent. Even having heard that clip on TV, hearing it live I am completely floored, covered in goosebumps. 

Just as impressive, he’s an incredible performer. He is delivering the emotional content of every song not only with his voice, but his face and his entire body. He holds nothing back. I am not prepared to see him laid so bare. Sometimes he’s having fun, sometimes he’s in love, sometimes he’s full of joy, sometimes he’s in agony, and we can’t help but go with him. 

Most notably of all, pretty much all the time he is completely enraptured by the music, his face frequently looking like something that I for one have never encountered outside a bedroom. He is absolutely making love to his audience, now on his knees, head and arms thrown back, eyes closed, mouth open, ecstatic. The man is of course objectively sexy by any standard. But what he is putting off now is something else entirely. This is not the humble, kind man I spent two days with. This is not even the man from the sheer-shirt photo shoot. This is a total beast. 

There are many moments where I feel like a peeping Tom. I cannot look at those faces 50 feet high on the giant screens behind him. I have to watch those parts squinting between my fingers. Just before intermission, I realize my mouth has been hanging open. I snap it shut as I feel myself flush with embarrassment. There’s no question that I’m feeling what he’s putting off. Yikes. 

And all of this while I am completely overwhelmed by the beauty of his voice and his skill in using it. It would be too much even if I didn’t know him at all, but the fact that I do is the straw that breaks the camel’s back. My mind is completely blown, a jumble of emotions and impressions. I lack the tools to process all of this.

I feel tricked. He knew it would be like this. He wanted it to be like this. This is why he told me not to watch any videos. He didn’t want me to be prepared or know to put my guard up or develop any immunity to his spell. He wanted me to get the full effect. Devious. Manipulative. Not fair, as Rashid said.

Still, I have to hand it to him. I don’t even know how he is doing what he’s doing up there in front of the near 15,000 people in this arena. He has let down every barrier, every defense, left himself completely vulnerable to us, showing us things we could so easily reject or judge him for. It must take incredible trust in his audience and more confidence than I can imagine. He seems to connect individually with every person in the room. There are times where I feel like he’s looking right at me, singing just for me. If everyone is experiencing what I am, it’s no wonder his fans support him so passionately.

He’s obviously loving it, but the pressure must be insane. The lights, screens, fireworks, dancers–that’s just the sideshow. His performance is the only thing that matters. And unlike a lot of celebrities, he’s doing this stone cold sober. Then again, most celebrities don’t have what he has. He is surrounded by people who love him, true friends on stage and backstage, life-long friends and family in the audience at every show. I start to understand why his team feels a bit like a cult. They are protecting him, keeping him sane and down to earth, enabling him to be the way he is up there.

At the end he comes down beside the audience, jubilantly singing to them as he works his way past a receiving line of their outstretched hands. While security drags him back to the stage, he shouts “I love you” to the audience at least a dozen times in different languages. It’s obvious that he truly does. 

Overall I’m incredibly impressed. I did not expect this. I have to say he is without a doubt not only the best singer I have ever heard but also one spectacular performer. This was the best show I’ve ever been to. I’m sure the rest of the audience felt the same.

I could go downstairs again afterwards, but I’m sure my friends down there are busy packing up all that mess. And even if I could get anywhere near Adam, which seems doubtful, there is no way in hell I could look him in the eye after seeing him in the throes of passion like that. I don’t know whether I’ll ever see him again, but definitely I can’t see him right now. Instead, I meet up with the rest of the gang to head back to the hotel.

Everybody is super hyped after the show. Someone had the foresight to reserve a private room on the far side of the hotel bar just for us. The public side is also full of celebrating fans. I hear voices in many languages. Everyone is happy with the show, but they think Adam was maybe a bit reserved in front of the tough Russian crowd. Are you kidding me? That was reserved? 

My friends want to know how it felt to lose my virginity. The term that amused me on the plane feels way too on the nose after what I just experienced. I don’t even have the words to explain my reaction to the show, so I mostly just shrug and sputter, which gets a lot of laughter. Apparently, that’s a typical response. They agree that it was diabolical of him to ask me to come to the show with no idea at all what I was getting into.

To our surprise, Amelia, Rashid, Lukpan, and Elena show up. Adam won’t, he’s completely exhausted, of course, plus he always stays out of sight before and after concerts. With good reason, based on what I’m hearing from the near hysterical crowd across the bar. They’d eat him alive if they saw him. I congratulate my friends and tell them how impressed I was. Adam was the star, of course, but the band really was pristine, and Rashid engineered the whole show seamlessly.

But then Adam does show up. He has been brought in through the kitchen, under a plain hoodie that he keeps well over his face, concealed in the dim bar lights. He is still high and running on adrenaline. He making the rounds, beaming and hugging his friends – it looks like everyone gets a hug tonight – thanking everyone and telling them he loves them. 

I feel awkward as hell having basically just watched him make love to 15,000 people, including me, for two hours straight. Knowing that he’s objectively handsome and sexy and feeling it are quite different things. The beast on stage tonight made me feel it head to toe and, viscerally, in several key intermediate locations. I’m very uncomfortable. I do not want to see him or talk to him. Why am I in this red sweater and not my disguise? I desperately try to hide in the shadows and activate my cloak of invisibility. It doesn’t work. He sees me. I continue to fail to disappear as he works his way over to me.

I think for a moment that he’s going to hug me too, but to my relief, he doesn’t try. He’s obviously not back to himself yet. He was on stage barely an hour ago. He’s still the star, still buzzing, brimming with an unnerving intensity. I can feel his body heat. He smells like soap. His hair is damp under his hood. The stage makeup is gone from his perfect face. He must have showered and come right here. He’s in sneakers and I’m in my one pair of heels so he isn’t towering over me as much as usual. Black jeans. White t-shirt with some music-themed graphic. Pendant necklace. 

It’s not weird for me to be hyper-aware of these details when the whole day has revolved around him and I just spent two hours staring at him on a 50-foot-high jumbotron. This must be normal when you talk to the star right after his show. I just don’t have any context for it. And I’m trained to be observant of every detail, the exact shade and shape of his lips, the length of his eyelashes. Right? 

I know it’s January, but really, the heat in this bar is turned up way too high.

He speaks to me in English, so it’s just slightly slow and everything feels extra emphatic. “Katya. I’m happy to see you. I spent the first half of the show thinking that you did not come. I was very disappointed.” 

Of course he doesn’t mean that literally. He wasn’t thinking about me while he was on stage doing all that. I’m trying to hide how totally overwhelmed I am by his proximity. This is silly; I spent two days with my nose practically in his armpit. I shouldn’t feel like this with him standing in front of me. 

“Of course I came. Why did you think not?”

“You did not come downstairs before the show and I could not find you in the audience. Rashid told me where you were at intermission. So I did not see you until the second half.” 

Wait, what? He saw me? I thought I was invisible, there in the dark. Good lord. So at least for a moment, he was literally thinking about me, looking for me, even looking at me. While he was actually on stage, doing all that. That is seriously disconcerting. If he could see me, what did he see? I could see his face quite clearly from my seat. Please tell me he couldn’t see mine.

I try not to stutter. “Oh, I came downstairs before the show. I explored. I just didn’t want to be in the way.” My thoughts feel like disconnected fireworks as I get sizzled by the energy pouring off of him.

“If I give you a pass, I want to see you.” That was uncharacteristically blunt. I don’t know what to say. 

I feel like he’s scolding me.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t want to bother you while you were getting ready. I did see you in your green room, though.” I offer the last as if it makes up for not saying hello. 

“You didn’t come down after.” He wags a finger at me. “And you never say hello at rehearsal. You just wave and leave.” 

I shake my head a bit, confused. “I’m ... sorry.” I’m flummoxed. Have I hurt his feelings? Is that possible? We barely know each other. This is horrible. He’s so nice, he gave me the pass that is still hanging around my neck, he gave me this whole experience, not to mention the gift of the performance he just gave to all of us, and I have been inconsiderate.

He smiles and shakes his head back at me, letting me off the hook. “No, don’t be sorry. It’s fine. It’s nothing. But this,” he picks up my pass and holds it up, “is very special. It’s only for people who I want to see. Next time you have to come see me. Don’t make me come find you like this. OK?”

I nod but I am at a loss. Words like “next time” and “like this” have lost their meaning. 

He drops the pass and assesses me for a moment, looking like he’s waiting. Blazing eyes. I feel like I’m cooking under his gaze.

“Are you going to tell me what you thought?”

Oooh. Rather not. “Mmmm, I think fishing for compliments isn’t a good look on you.”

“I want to know your opinion. Seriously. Did you like the show?”

I look past him. Our friends, rudely, are not coming over to save me. I take a deep breath. “I see why people call you an angel. I honestly didn’t think a human could sing like you did.”

He doesn’t seem to care about that. “But did you like it?”

I relent. “The show was spectacular. I loved some of it, really. I liked most of it. Some wasn’t my style.” He’s nodding. I have to say something about his performance; I can’t avoid it. “You were, um ...” boy, eight languages and I’m not sure what the right word is for this. “You’re a very skilled performer.”

A barely perceptible smile as he glances around in what appears to be a quick privacy check. He lowers his voice. “Did you feel it?” 

I can’t believe he is asking me if I felt his performance. Brazen! I’m sure he knows that I felt everything he wanted me to feel, including things that I would rather not have felt. I am not about to disclose that. Nope, nope, nope. But I can’t lie. 

I have to look away. “I felt it.” I curse myself for how timid I sound. I’m an American diplomat, dammit. 

He appears satisfied. “Good.” 

I’m sulky. “Just so you know, I’m adding devious and brazen to your list of flaws.”

He doesn’t pretend not to understand. He laughs wickedly. “That’s fair.” 

He looks at me for another moment, then as he turns to move on, he pats my back, an odd but comforting gesture. “Thank you for coming.” He wanders off to the next person telling him what an epic show it had been. 

That may be the most disconcerting conversation I have ever had. I’m reading way too much into it though. I’m not myself yet. I’m still under the influence of his performance, seeing things in him that aren’t there. He’s not himself either, still emotionally charged from his own show and being careless about the impression he gives. 

Now that I’m no longer within body heat and smelling distance of him, my brain is working again. We’ve spent a total of two days working together. He hasn’t spent the last month fretting about seeing me or whether I say hello at rehearsals, he didn’t spend the first concert of his world tour thinking about me being in the audience, and he didn’t come here tonight to find me. That’s ridiculous. 

From my training, I know to be on guard against highly charismatic people, whose primary talent is making others feel special. He is beyond highly charismatic. That’s what that was. Thank you, Lord, for my good sense, or I could be in trouble.

He stays for about fifteen minutes more talking to people when he starts to pass out on his feet. Amelia and Rashid grab him by the arms and see to getting him back to whatever hotel they are all staying at. 


	12. Called to Korea

Life after this continues to be kind of boring. Despite my PhDs, my job at the embassy is to watch, listen, and whisper. I don’t have a seat at the table – why would I – but it’s frustrating. Mainly I research the people my team will be working with, finding out whatever is needed so I can tell my people the right thing to say at the right time, help them woo or intimidate as the situation demands.

My people are pros and very sophisticated. Some of them used to do what I do and don’t need my help very much. But sometimes there will be a pause and I’ll know the right thing to slip in their ears and then I feel worthwhile. I am in meetings of every sort, trade, agriculture, science, tourism. I don’t get to sit in on anything military or security related, not that there’s much of that in Sanzharistan. Above my clearance.

Occasionally I get overflow work from the Moscow embassy but it’s no more interesting that what I’m doing here. Besides, if there’s overflow, that means they have more work than they can handle. I don’t know why I can’t do it there. I can’t imagine the problem is that they don’t have an extra desk. So here I am, rotting away professionally in Sanzharistan. 

I’m rotting socially too. Other than one weekend that everyone is home between the Russia and China dates, Amelia and the team are away. I have lunch with Robert a couple of times but I still can’t tell whether he’s actually interested. Of course he’s a diplomat so I won’t know anything he doesn’t want me to know. Honestly, I’m not sure whether I’m interested either. I’m ashamed to admit that Robert – nice, good-looking, smart, compatible – has a hard time measuring up when I think about men like Cho-Ji and Adam. I’m going to have a tough love life, though, if I allow utterly unattainable superhumans like them to be my standard.

Still ... nothing wrong with re-watching a few N-POWER videos tonight. I still haven’t watched any Adam videos, nor do I think I will ever be able to after that show. Best to just put that right out of my mind. It’s possible I might encounter him again before I move to Moscow and I do not need those images floating around my head if I do.

Sure enough, an opportunity presents itself in just a few more weeks. It’s February now, and Amelia calls me at work late one afternoon. Russia and China have been great. The last two concerts of this leg of the tour are in South Korea. They are there for eight days for the extra promotional work, and it isn’t what they expected. 

Adam is starting to get known in Korea and of course Dilshad, with the help of RMR, arranged for non-stop appearances and interviews and photo shoots. The first day in Busan was dawn to dusk insanity. But Adam’s not K-pop – frankly, he’s better at what he does than their best – and on day one everyone can sense a jealous, critical, edge to all the coverage. He’s tired, he’s done six shows already, and the pressure is getting to him. He’s feeling insecure.

He is asking for me to come and do what I did at the Victorias for the rest of their time in Korea. I’m surprised and flattered, but a little apprehensive. I tell her I need to think about it.

I am having quite a hard time deciding whether I want to do this. I figure the easiest way to resolve my dilemma is simply to have my boss tell me I can’t go. But he doesn’t just say yes. He seems positively thrilled to get rid of me for a week. It’s up to me, he says, but it would be a great favor for Sanzharistan relations. Do it. Please go.

I’m not so sure. The Victorias were a lot. It was exciting, but the celebrity world is not what I had in mind for my career. Adam was nice for a two days plus a few scattered minutes on a couple of other occasions. Eight days? The ugly side is bound to come out, and I don’t want to see that. 

Plus, although I’ve gotten past that weird post-concert conversation, I am still having some trouble reconciling the thoughtful man who I respect and the sexy beast who left me stammering. I don’t think I want to spend a whole week dealing with that. No, I definitely don’t.

I call Amelia back and tell her that I can’t do it. Amelia pleads. When I’m firm, she resorts to lowbrow tactics. Of course she knows that I have not had any success at dating, so she teasingly reminds me how hot and single Adam is. How can I pass that up? I hang up on her. She calls right back and I tell her that I don’t base my career choices on my clients’ hotness or lack thereof. I hear more laughter, and it’s Adam, of course, on her phone. Thank God I didn’t say anything incriminating. 

But he sounds desperate. No hint of the star in Omsk.

“Katya, I need your help. Really. This is too much.”

I sigh. “What’s going on?”

“It’s as busy as the Victorias but they aren’t as nice here. I can’t tell if I’m saying the wrong things. I don’t trust their interpreters. I don’t know who anyone is. They make me play silly games and I can’t tell if they are laughing with me or at me. I still have a whole week of this plus the two concerts. We’re just in Busan now. When we get to Seoul it will be even more.”

“Can’t you hire your own interpreter there?”

“Not someone like you. Not you.”

I sigh again. “Adam, I’m sorry. I don’t want to leave you in the lurch, but this is not really my line of work. And I can’t be gone a whole week.”

“The embassy will let you do it.” He sounds suspiciously certain about that. “I know that this is a big favor, a big job, on no notice. Of course we’ll pay you for it.” He offers me the equivalent of $1,000 a day, all expenses paid, of course, I won’t even have to share a room. 

“Whoa, no, that is way over my rate.”

“I don’t care. I need your help.” 

I imagine him alone in front of unfriendly media, not knowing the languages, cosmopolitan South Korean TV hosts trying to make a fool of an upstart boy from a second-world country. Him trying to make a good impression, stay polite, hours and days on end, all while trying to stay in a good frame of mind for his shows. Dammit! He needs me. And Korea is my specialty, after all.

“Ugh, fine, I’ll come. But I can’t accept that much, it’s stealing. I’ll take half that. But I have three conditions.” These are standard when I’m traveling with my clients.

“Tell me.”

“I’m yours all day, and I’ll work late if I need to, but I’m off at midnight no matter what you are doing.”

“That is past my bedtime anyway. Yes.”

“I will not help you pick up girls, or guys, whatever you’re into.”

He laughs. I can hear the relief in his voice. “Girls, and that definitely will not be an issue. Yes.”

“Good. Last, and for the record I say this to everyone I travel with, if you hit on me or make me uncomfortable in any way, I’m on the next plane out.”

He doesn’t laugh at this one. “I hope you know that I would never do that. I can promise that for myself and everyone on my team. No one will bother you. I swear it.”

“I do know that. But I have to say it. OK then. I’ll get the next flight I can.” 

“God bless you. You are very, very good person. Thank you, thank you, thank you. We’ll send you my itinerary. Just get to Busan as soon as you can.”

He gives Amelia her phone and her excitement at my coming makes me look forward to the trip. So, I’m off for a week in the heart of South Korea’s music industry. I tell my boss and he seems pleased. Like, very pleased.

“Kate, as long as you’re going to be in Seoul, there’s someone we’d like you to meet. He works for another agency, but you might work with him from time to time.”

“OK. I don’t know my schedule, though.”

“That’s fine, you can play it by ear,” he says. “Take this.” He hands me a low-end cell phone. “Seriously? I can’t just call the office?” I’m actually amused; this is my first ever burner phone. I laugh out loud and he laughs with me.

“Just text the number in the phone when you know you’ll have a break. He’ll tell you where to meet.”

“OK, boss. Should I drop the phone in acid afterwards?” We laugh again.

“Any public dumpster will do.” Ha ha ha. “Really, do throw it away after the meeting.”

Seriously? Wow. OK. I pack my gear and take the only available redeye to Seoul, and from there to Busan. Sleep is impossible, so I pay for the good wi-fi and try to research what I can on his itinerary.


	13. Busan

After a horrible night of travel, I go from the Busan airport directly to the appointed location, a press conference. I find him already in front of a firing squad of entertainment media. They are pressing him on the Asian part of his Eurasian identity, digging at whether his musical style is too Eurocentric. Wow, this really is hostile. I remember those few words we exchanged when we first met, about spreading his culture being so important to him. These guys are jerks. I take my place behind his shoulder and slip the receiver into his palm. I can see the relief wash over him as he puts it in his ear. 

Studying language includes studying culture, so I understand South Korea’s split personality when it comes to the West. Despite a strong, top-down push toward multi-culturalism and the fact that South Korea’s entertainment industry and, indeed, its entire economy has boomed very much by adopting a more Western outlook, there’s backlash. Right away, I’m able to help him out with a metaphor that this audience will understand. He deploys it perfectly. I see why he needed me. I’m glad I came.

My first two days are all media. Day three will be the Busan concert, then to Seoul in the morning. It’s a steady pace. Intense but manageable. They make him answer the same questions a million times. I help him stay out of trouble. They do try to trick him into revealing personal information or saying the wrong thing. Everyone tries to pry into his private life, which, wisely, he refuses to discuss. 

We’re together non-stop from 8 am to whenever it’s over, usually before ten but sometimes after. As before, I’m his little shadow in a black shroud. I walk behind him everywhere he goes. I sit behind him when I can, next to him when I can’t. I’m his invisible conjoined twin. He shines like the sun, so brightly that I’m completely obscured by the glare. I’m used to not being noticed during diplomatic work, but in the entertainment world the staff is 100 times more ignored. Today’s aide might be tomorrow’s diplomatic liaison, but a star’s little moons will never be anybody.

While this is going on, I’m even invisible to my own client. He barely looks at me, he barely talks to me, he just focusses on listening to the earpiece and everyone around him, doing as he’s asked, and keeping that unshakable composure. I can’t imagine him doing all this alone. The rest of the team are on the periphery. I see very little of my friends. They get to sightsee, but I’m with Adam. No fun like that for either of us.

I do get to know him a little better, though. Mercifully, he’s all nice guy and no sexy beast. Work like this is a lot of hurry up and wait, and a lot of car rides, so we have a fair amount of time to talk and work on his English skills. Fortunately, he’s very easy to talk to.

I tell him about my childhood in Madrid, how I traveled with my parents extensively, my mother homeschooling me everywhere from Ireland to Russia, Norway to Malta. How I picked up French, Italian, and Spanish sitting in the laps of Ambassadors and Prime Ministers, but had no childhood friends. He seems enthralled to learn that the most beautiful parks and plazas in Europe were my playgrounds, how I took art classes at the Prado. He is particularly delighted to learn how I had my first “music lesson” at the age of five, sitting on the piano bench while the entertainment at a Spanish Baroness’s birthday party taught me some folk songs. It was Placido Domingo. 

He tells me about his childhood studying music from the time he was old enough to speak and sit up by himself on a piano bench. Twenty years of music school and international competitions all over the Eastern Hemisphere. Choir, musical theater, rock bands, even opera. Scraping by as a wedding singer and special guest at Sanzhar variety shows. Then the live Russian New Year’s Eve variety show where he was the last-minute substitute for a legendary singer who suddenly fell ill. Adam was only supposed to have a small part in another segment, but one of the producers knew what he could do and gave him the slot. He sang three songs that catapulted him to overnight fame. His had to adjust to being a celebrity fast, and it has just been growing ever since. The story is fascinating. 

Aside from that, we have much more in common than I would have thought. We were both diligent students. The difference is that my studying languages isolated me, while his preparation for the stage made him many life-long friendships. Surprisingly, he also loves classical music. We both love the Russian romantic composers the most. 

We discover that we both have traveled intensively for long periods of time. We commiserate about how tiring it is, how everyone else is getting to have at least a little fun. I tell him about the places I’ve been as an interpreter. He’s been to many of the same ones as a performer. We know a lot about the airports and nothing about the tourist destinations. But we have both been extremely hard workers all our lives, so it goes with territory.

His skills and his success are no accidents, any more than mine are. He’s young but he has worked hard for them. Moreover, that humble, likable personality really is genuine. Even when he’s tired or hungry and any façade could be expected to slip, nothing does. I’m impressed. 

In one little lull in the media blitz, I tell him I’m reminded of prisoner interrogations. He seems unhappy to imagine that I have been involved in American interrogations and asks if I’ve ever seen anybody waterboarded, of all things. Of course I haven’t, I was just kidding, I just work on the business side. 

This leads us to talk a little about our religions. He’s Muslim, of course, with traditional Sanzhar beliefs. I was born and baptized as a Christian, but my beliefs are very inclusive. It’s our fifth day together, including the two at the Victoria awards. All this time I have been surprised by our similarities. For the first time, I’m reminded that we are from completely different cultures and religions. 

The Busan concert is not completely sold out, but very respectable. I do some quick math. Assuming a very lowball estimate of $125 per person for tickets and merchandise, this show will have brought in close to two million dollars. And there are nineteen shows on this tour. Of course, the costs have to be extraordinary too. Tons of costs for the venue itself, everything from spotlight operators to scaffolding. Plus the costs to have this show on the road – probably 30 performers, crew, and staff have to be paid, fed, housed, moved from place to place, and insured, as well as at least a few trucks full of gear driving along behind. I feel a little silly for refusing the pay Adam offered me.

This time I have the same all-access pass the whole team has. I don’t feel like as much of an intruder. I still hang back, chatting with my friends while they get ready. I peek in as Adam again stands quietly at the center of the maelstrom while the costumers and hair and makeup people transform him into a pop star. 

I force myself to greet him and wish him a good show, remembering what he said in Omsk. I realize that all these greetings and well-wishes beforehand armor him, giving him strength and courage to go out and do what he does. I’m glad I could contribute a tiny piece.

I’m interested to see that the set list here is lighter, more pop oriented. The harder songs from Omsk aren’t for this audience. Now that I know him a little better, I really can’t watch him make love to the audience for two hours. I stay backstage in the green rooms, where I can still hear his heavenly voice but don’t have to look at his face doing all those things. Or his body, which all these photo shoots have revealed to be quite nice as well. 

The crowd tonight was amazing. This show was a greater triumph than expected. Russian audiences hold back, Chinese and Korean ones don’t. They respond with all their emotion – tears, cheers, screams, even fainting. Amelia has told me that he needs that support to give up all his inhibitions and fully reveal himself. The effectiveness of a show is half vocals and half performance–how much of himself he’s able to let the audience see. The more emotion the audience has, the less reserved he is. Good lord, I think. He didn’t reveal himself in Omsk? What the hell did he do tonight if Omsk was reserved? Have an actual orgasm on stage? I’m glad I didn’t see it.

The celebration down there after the show is too much. He’s on fire when he comes back, blazing, glorious, blasting the walls out of the room with his energy and presence. Nothing humble now. He’s the star and he knows it. Once again I’m struck by the difference between the star and the person I’m getting to know, but I’m starting to understand that both sides of the man are genuine. It also puts our interaction after Omsk in context. That was indeed post-show euphoria, nothing to do with me. That’s a relief.

I keep my ears open but I only have to help out with some local fan club leaders who had the privilege of decorating the green room and now get to meet the artist. This is the first time I’ve seen him with his fans up close rather than screaming from afar. It’s like watching disciples meet their God. I tone down their language just a little in my interpreting. There’s no toning down their faces or body language. I’m almost embarrassed for them but their love is so unbridled that I can’t help loving them a little for it.

He is so kind to them. He loves them genuinely and intensely, so grateful for their support. He thanks them so sincerely and warmly, takes pictures with them, hold their hands, smiles devastating laser beams into their eyes. I see some of them have their breath literally taken away by his attention. The line of people wanting a piece of him, a selfie with him, an autograph, to talk to him and tell him how much they love him, to give him gifts and flowers, seems endless. He attends to them all. He is finally whisked away and taken back to the hotel with his inner circle while the rest of us trail behind.


	14. Getting to Know Adam

In Seoul on days four and five, I discover just how intense celebrity culture can be. It’s three times what we did in Busan. This is the epicenter of Asia’s entertainment industry. It’s madness, constant appearances, they run him around, dress him up and down. I trail him morning until night to interviews, photo shoots, last minute promos for his concert. He goes on TV shows and plays games. He has to make cookies, paint crockery, wear painfully silly costumes and hats, attempt to speak Korean. It’s infantilizing and embarrassing to my Western sensibilities, but he plays along gamely.

On day five he has three different photo shoots in a single day. One is to promote his own TV appearance the following day, one a Korean fashion house, one a jeweler. The pace is frantic. I’m right at his shoulder and I have to avert my eyes while they strip him down and dress him up in whatever they’re selling. 

Modeling allows no dignity or privacy. It’s a windstorm of flat irons and eyebrow pencils and lip brushes and oil blotters, racks of clothes, swarms of stylists, photographers, and assistants, then endless poses and checking the results in the camera displays. The photographers say “OK, I think we have enough,” and we rush off do to it all over again somewhere else.

The Korean stylists deserve a freaking medal. He looks absolutely gorgeous in everything from jeans and a t-shirt, to a $20,000 tweed tuxedo, to an obviously S&M inspired black leather outfit, complete with trench coat, gloves, and a lot of unnecessary straps and metal rings. Being 6 foot 3, famous, and outrageously talented, as well as gorgeous, has put him in the sights of just about every high-end brand. He is really good at modeling. I can’t even look at him melting camera lenses with those sultry expressions. I learn to look elsewhere while staying close enough to hear everything and far enough away to remain out of frame. 

I have never cared about celebrity culture, but honestly, it’s very fun and exciting to be in this world. The pace keeps me on my toes. Other members of the team flow in and out. He remains considerate and solicitous of everyone, asking if we need breaks, making sure we are ready to move on before dragging us to the next thing. 

I, on the other hand, am barely aware of the rest of the team as I’m listening for three Asian languages at once over the constant din of fans and reporters calling out to him. I whisper to him in English or Russian depending on who can hear us, warning him about trick questions, telling him who the influencers are and who doesn’t matter, while he makes everyone feel special and shows infinite patience with the never-ending requests for selfies and one more quote or radio station promo recording. He is, once again, an absolute gentleman as well as a professional.

My brain is working overtime and my senses are overloaded. I’m exhausted and am asleep before I hit the pillow every night. I can’t imagine how tired he must be, and he has the stress of the last solo concert on this leg to perform on top of all this. It’s incredibly important for him to do well here in Seoul. Everyone seemed to think the deals Dilshad struck when we negotiated with RMR were a huge success, but now I realize that Dilshad is being merciless with Adam’s schedule. I start to wonder if he has any idea what he’s doing. I’m so glad Adam has so much support from his team, as I have no more to give.

I have been curious that Adam’s dad, Ismail, seems to accompany him almost everywhere. As we practice Adam’s English, he tells me about his family. The kind of relationship he has with them is unheard of in America. He has lived under the same roof with his extended family his whole life, and he has no intention of that ever changing. A couple of years ago, when he started making money, he bought a nicer, larger house and moved them all into it. 

We’re in a limo when he tells me about living with three generations, nine people at his house. Two parents, two grandparents, him and his three siblings, and what I take to be a poor-relation cousin who serves as a housekeeper. Plus various relatives and close friends of the family rotating through as houseguests all the time.

“I can’t even imagine that. Not even one part of that.”

“Why not? I could not live without my family. Isn’t it hard for you to be here without yours?”

“I don’t have one.”

He’s incredulous. “What do you mean you do not have family?”

I have told this story many times. I’m used to it.

“My parents were diplomats. They died in a terrorist bombing when I was ten.” 

He looks sick. It takes him a while to respond. “I’m so sorry. No child should suffer that way.” I’m figuring out he’s got quite a tender heart. I’m moved by his display of emotion and start to splutter out things I don’t normally share.

“I was heartbroken. My parents and I were really close. Since we were always travelling it was always just the three of us for my whole life, and then suddenly it was just me.”

“You have no brother, no sister?” Brah-thuh? See-stuh? His accent is beguiling. 

“No. They married late. My mom was already 40 when she had me and my dad was 55, so...”

He’s taken aback by that. No one waits that long to have kids in his world. Reproducing early and often is an important cultural value.

“Who then cared for you?”

“My dad’s parents were already gone. I lived with my mom’s parents, but they were in their 70s by then. Grandpa died when I was in high school, and then Grandma when I graduated from college. So that was it. It’s just been me since I was 19.” I shrug, trying to keep it matter-of-fact. “I try to be grateful that I had the family I did while I had them.”

He is dumbstruck.

“What about your aunts and uncles, what do you call them, their kids?”

“I am the only child of two only children. No aunts, no uncles, no cousins.”

My situation actually seems to be upsetting him. His voice is strained as he asks, “How could you survive this way, with no family?”

“What choice did I have?” Something about his empathy cracks me open just a little more. “But I can tell you, me losing my family is the most important thing there is to know about me. It pretty much explains everything else.”

Silence as he processes this. “You must have relied on friends.”

I’m starting to feel a little choked up. I don’t dwell on this very much and I’m surprised that it was so easy for him to uncork this emotion in me. I guess that’s the artist’s gift, though. His, at any rate. He’s already easy to talk to, and evoking emotion is literally his job.

“Um. Not really. I was much younger than my classmates all the way through college. I finally had a group of friends in grad school but they came with my boyfriend, and when we broke up, he kept them. For the next two years I traveled constantly for the Foreign Service. I didn’t even have an apartment of my own until I got to Izmir.”

He looks horrified. My chest heart is hurting a little and my eyes are burning. How is he doing this? I hope I don’t cry, but I’m suddenly feeling very sentimental. I continue. “The friends I have now are probably the best friends I’ve ever had. I’ll really miss them when I move on. I’m so grateful to Amelia for taking me in.” I look at my lap. “It means more to me than she could know.”

He’s radiating empathy; like he’s actually feeling what I feel, his face like a reflection. It makes me uncomfortable, so I try to lighten the mood with some sarcasm.

“Well, thanks for reminding me how pathetic I am,” I joke.

He is as serious as can be and responds forcefully. “No. Not pathetic. You must be very, very strong, incredible strength, to go through life on your own. I never could do that. I would be nothing without my family, my friends who support me since I was child.” He shakes his head emphatically. “This is not right. You should not be alone.” His intensity is a bit much; I’m not sure what to make of it.

“Don’t worry about me. I intend to have lots of kids and make my own family.” I hasten to add: “Eventually. Not now.”

He still looks troubled. “Ah, yes. Me too. But definitely not now. Maybe when I’m 30. Or 40.” 

I laugh. “Or 50. Male privilege.” That breaks the tension.

We have had this conversation in English with Ismail and Dilshad in the car. They are now looking at us in the suspicious way that people do when they think you’re talking about them in a foreign language. Ismail in particular is eyeing his son very closely. He can surely tell that this was a fairly intense conversation, at least for me, and he’s curious. I don’t feel like delivering a recap, but I do switch to Russian to be polite. 

I jokingly tell Dilshad that I’m going to turn old and grey with this schedule and that he’s going to age Adam right out of the pop idol business. Adam picks up my cue and joins in jokingly. We try to pressure Dilshad into building in at least the occasional day off when Adam’s on the road. He tells us he’s a business manager, not a cruise director. But I think he gets the message. Adam’s a young man. He can’t live on work alone, even if his work is his passion. 

It’s nice to feel like I’m getting to know my client a bit. I don’t usually have the opportunity or desire to cross that boundary with the people I work for. I doubt very much that I’ll be crossing it with Dilshad, but you never know. He seems decent enough. Not as nice as Adam, but maybe worth getting to know at least a little.


	15. The Expo

On day six, Adam has been invited as an honored guest to a heavily promoted K-pop expo where two new idol groups will be debuting and several big-name groups will perform. By “invited,” I mean that we successfully negotiated with the RMR all the details of his attendance, backstage access, seating placement, camera time, and three mentions of his Seoul concert by the TV commentators. The concert isn’t sold out yet and the hope is that after the Expo is televised live, it will be.

The show is an extravaganza attended by all the big names in K-pop and quite a few foreign names as well. Pretty much any celeb who happens to be in the Eastern hemisphere is in attendance.

It’s a completely different vibe from the Victoria awards ceremony. It’s a variety show/party on a scale I can hardly contemplate. Adam gets to go backstage beforehand and meet the groups, so I get to follow. It is a complete madhouse. Backstage is a massive complex of hallways, atriums, and green rooms. He works his way through the crowds. I’m impressed to find that lots of the performers know who Adam is and want to meet him. I guess I shouldn’t be entirely surprised, but it’s still pretty cool. The swarm is so intense that I get separated from him a few times and he has to come pull his moon back into orbit.

Every sort of entertainment industry personality is backstage. The beauty and glamour are dialed up to eleven. It is South Korea, after all, where you have to put your headshot on your resume even to work in a file room. 

He, of course, easily measures up. Sadly, even in Asia, the dominant beauty standard favors Europeans, so his Eurasian blend makes him the gold standard of gorgeous here. Plus, he stands a head taller than almost all the people around him, which they also love. The admiration they pour on him is thick. By comparison I feel like crap. By now I’m worn out, grimy, and my unwashed shroud feels so stiff and itchy that I have had to unbutton the top few buttons. I feel less like I’m invisible and more like an object lesson in what not to wear, here in the most exciting and glamorous place I have ever been.

Despite the excitement, I am reminded of the ugly side of celebrity. At one point, Adam is exchanging compliments with KittyKat, a hugely popular girl group that is performing tonight. They are all legs and swagger and perfect faces, any of them a match for Adam, which they are advertising quite clearly. Several of them speak English well enough that I can disengage. 

Swimming at the group’s feet is a school of girls who can be no more than ten years old. South Korea starts its idol training incredibly young. Future idols audition when they are literally children, then spend middle school and high school in what could be considered performing arts prison camps, often debuting under intense pressure while they are barely teenagers. These little girls are already costumed and made up like KittyKittens. These Korean production companies are seriously into long-term planning. 

One of these girls is in obvious distress, choking back tears. She’s a beautiful child. Her makeup is starting to smear and her hair isn’t put up like the other girls’ is. My heart goes out to her, and I kneel to talk to her. I address her in Korean and she shakes her head. I make an educated guess and ask her in Japanese if she’s OK. I was right, and she’s not OK.

Her parents have sent her here to become an idol trainee. She’s all alone. She doesn’t speak Korean well and the other girls are mean to her. They messed up her hair on purpose. They only have a moment on stage, in the background for the big group, but if she doesn’t look right, she could be kicked out. She starts to cry in earnest. I notice a couple of the older girls looking down in annoyance. Not just annoyance. Disdain. Disgust, even. Adam, on the other hand, is looking down in concern. He’s a class act. 

I hug the little girl. I wipe away her smeared mascara. I take off my hat and pull out the hair tie holding my bun together. I pull her hair into a little twist and use my rubber band to hold it. This isn’t my forte, but I’m going to do what I can. I pull out a few tendrils around her face and she looks a lot more polished. 

My bag of tricks includes a utility knife, which I use to liberate a few blooms from a nearby flower arrangement. I weave them through the rubber band and, and voila, she actually looks stage ready. While I’m doing this, I tell her that when I was ten, I also had to move to a new country without my parents. I reassure her that everything will be OK. She’s much better now and gives me another hug. The girls have moved on and she scurries off.

I stand back up and cram my hat back on my head. 

Adam is waiting, looking at me in something like confusion. I look back, confused at his confusion. Surely me fixing a kid’s hair wasn’t that strange. I wonder if I shouldn’t have defiled the flower arrangement. I want to ask what’s up, but he is looking at me with such intensity that I feel too awkward to say anything. After getting so comfortable together I am yet again reminded that we live in completely different universes. I have no idea what he’s thinking. After a long moment, he speaks, and all he says is, “Thank you for doing that.” 

“It’s nothing,” I reply. I’m relieved that I didn’t do anything wrong. Someone calls his name and we’re back to working the room, everything back to normal. 

Adam seems fine and I forget all about it, especially when I discover that N-POWER is also performing and is currently holding court in its own private green room. Even though Adam and N-POWER are completely different kinds of acts, they are more or less the same age and he is excited to say hello again to one of the biggest bands in the world, which means I get to approach. Squee! Stop fangirling, Kate. Act professional. The nine guys are costumed dead sexy for this performance, silk chokers, smoky eyeliner, half open shirts, tight black jeans with multiple strategically placed rips showing off their muscular dancers’ legs. 

They have a giant entourage with them, including their own interpreter, who appropriately takes charge. While Adam is talking with other members, Cho-Ji gives me big smile of recognition. I would not have dreamed six months ago that I would ever be in such a position. 

“Cut-ie Kat-ie!” He wags a finger at me. “This feels like fate.” Beaming.

“Hello again.” Try to beam less than him. Beam less. Control yourself. Oh, forget it.

“Ridden any horses lately?”

I laugh. “No, but they’ll kick me out of Sanzharistan soon if I don’t learn.”

“We just did a music video where we all had to ride. It was horrible. My backside hurt for days after. If you can avoid it, do.” He seems upbeat tonight, jazzed to perform. 

“Yikes, good to know.” I decide not to ask about the video; I’m sure he’s been questioned about it enough today. And I don’t want to sound like a fan.

He steps closer. “Did you know Vogue almost published that photo of us?” 

I’m astonished. “You’re kidding!”

“They were going to do a spread about the members out in the world with ‘regular people’” (he redeems the phrase by putting it in finger quotes) “and that was going to be my shot. But they changed the concept to something else. Did you see the candids that went around?”

“I did, actually. They were cute.” 

“Weren’t they? We looked good together.” He looks me up and down as he says it. How can you check out somebody in a black turtleneck cardigan, even with a couple of buttons undone? I hardly know what to say. He has opened some kind of pheromone release valve and the fumes are making me weak. My knees actually feel wobbly.

He purses his rosy lips and does something indescribable with those smoky eyes. Is he really flirting with me? Impossible. “So do you work for Adam now, or are you still with the embassy?” 

“I’m just on loan again.” I can see almost to his navel through his open shirt. He is graceful and ripped. I’m sure he knows how to control his costume and is letting it gap like that on purpose. Or the costume may be specially made to do that. Those tight jeans are made of some stretchy dance-friendly denim and leave nothing to the imagination. I try not to ogle. It’s difficult.

“Nice of the embassy to let your boyfriend take you on the road,” he teases. He lightly pokes me in the ribs and just barely bites his lower lip. Definitely flirting. His eyes are twinkling. My goodness. 

“He is not my boyfriend,” I retort incredulously. “Why would you say that?”

“Well, you know. People always wonder whether we have something going on with staff. And when staff is as beautiful, and brilliant, and nice as you are...” he shrugs, implying the rest. 

This man has a PhD in flirtation. In fact, he’s famous for it. But man, is my mood transformed! Here I am getting much-craved-for male attention from none other than Song Fucking Cho-Ji. And all while I am at the point of exhaustion and looking like I’m the guest of honor at my own funeral. What does a mere mortal like me say to that?

I struggle for the ability to speak and finally respond, “No, no. Nothing like that. It’s just that he’s basically royalty in Sanzharistan, so if he wants something, we all get on our knees and service him.”

I didn’t mean the Korean to come out quite like that. Cho-Ji raises his eyebrows as I realize how it sounded. I guffaw inelegantly. Well, no point in trying to impress him with my grace and sophistication now. May as well go all in. 

“But thank you for the compliment.” I’m too tired to have a filter right now. “I don’t feel brilliant or nice. I’m so tired. I’m barely keeping it together. And after five days of all this,” I gesture at the people around us and then to my uniform, “I definitely don’t feel beautiful. Kind of hard to measure up.”

He steps even closer to me. He drops the flirty vibe and allows his real face to show. I feel like the authentic person has emerged. The authentic person is taking me seriously and is sympathetic. “Don’t try to measure up to this. You don’t want that.” He sighs. “We never stop working. I’m always exhausted and starving. I always have to look like this, smile like this,” he grimaces a fake, exaggerated smile. “Measuring up to this is grueling, not glamorous. If I didn’t love performing so much, I’d quit and go live in the country.”

I’m disarmed by his sudden candor. I’m trained to get people to open up but I didn’t use any secret tactics on him. Maybe he’s just this open. 

I nod. “I get it. This week I’ve seen what Adam has to deal with. It’s crazy, and that’s like 5% of what you do.”

“I don’t know. It’s probably even harder for him because he does it alone. At least I’m doing it with my best friends.”

“He’s only alone on stage. His friends and family are with him everywhere else. He has a lot of support.”

“Including you. He’s a lucky man. How does a singer get somebody like you on his team anyway?” I blush. Like, actually blush. He continues. “I guess it’s also easier when you are the best in the world at what you do.” He looks at Adam and shakes his head in something approaching awe. “No singer can compare to him.”

“It’s true.”

“I’m not even the best singer in my own group. Or the best dancer. Or the best looking.” He says it so matter-of-factly. He really does hold himself up to ridiculously high standards. I’m not sure if I can be helpful, but I do know that telling him how wonderful he is won’t help somebody who gets told that a million times a day, literally, if you count up his social media. And, um. I probably shouldn’t say that he’s for sure the most sexy member of his group.

I take the liberty of touching his arm. It’s right there, after all. And he touched me first. “You know, once you are the best, there’s nowhere to go but down. Isn’t it better to focus on climbing than to worry about falling?”

He gives me thoughtful look.

“You really are a special girl. I hope you know that.” Well, what does somebody say to that? From him?

“Thank you. You’re pretty special yourself.”

“Thank you. I hope so.” He pauses. “You know, if you don’t mind me saying so, you don’t need to hide yourself at these things.” He looks me over again. “If it makes you feel bad, you shouldn’t.”

I decide I will take the advice of a man who has tens of thousands of people looking at his image every single moment of every day. This is not a diplomatic summit. It’s a party. “You know what,” I say. “You’re right.” I take off my glasses and my hat and shove them in my bag. My hair is freed. 

Cho-Ji reaches right in, his fingers grazing my neck for a moment as he shakes his hand through my hair, fluffing it apart so it all falls loose. Even though it’s totally inappropriate for him to do that, especially for a Korean, my opposition to men taking liberties apparently varies dramatically depending on who’s doing it. I’m shocked, dazzled, again. “Beautiful,” he murmurs. He still hasn’t put his performer face back on. I absolutely cannot believe this is happening.

I’m basking in the glow of his admiration until his eyes shift to something over my shoulder. I turn. Adam is shooting me a disapproving look. I’ve been talking to Cho-Ji for several long minutes now. I’m on the clock and enjoying the company of one of the world’s biggest megastars rather than tending to my own lesser star client. 

I wish Cho-Ji a good show and follow Adam.

On a bathroom break I put on the emergency makeup and pearl earrings I have rattling in the bottom of my bag. In my line of work you never know when you might have to fancy up, so they’re always in there, mostly ignored. I strip down to the fitted black camisole I’m wearing under the shroud. The shroud is wad-and-wear and I can easily cram it into my tote with the hat and glasses and equipment. 

My slacks are a soft flowy fabric that I happen to know does very nice things for my posterior, and while my sensible oxfords are not at all sexy, they do no harm. The outfit is way too plain for an event like this, but you can get away with basic black anywhere, and nobody expects anything from staff anyway. When I’m done, I look totally different. Yeah, I do have really great boobs. My arms look good too. I wish I had jewelry, but bare skin will have to do. I still feel tired but I come back out feeling worthy of at least being in the building.

When I come back out, I am no longer invisible. I get suddenly checked out by all sorts of people, so I feel briefly triumphant. I deflate just a bit when Adam, who can ironically sometimes seem like a bit of a prude, does not acknowledge my transformation at all. He’s focused on having a great time meeting all the stars backstage, which means I too get to talk to all kinds of famous and beautiful people. We work though the corridors. 

He gets tons of photos with tons of acts, laughing and is grinning like a loon. His genuine, happy smile is ten times more dazzling than anything he does for the cameras. Even other celebrities seem to stop in their tracks, blinking. To be among these people is a dream for him, I realize. It probably was for all of them at one point. I get a little burst of affection, seeing my rising star be star-struck himself.

Thanks to the negotiations with RMR, Adam is seated in the front rank of booths. This time I have a pass that allows me to sit with him and interpret the show for him. I feel very privileged to be the only one on the team who gets to go to the show. It is amazing and so much fun. A dozen acts perform, with tons of energy, fireworks, lights, competent singing, and some mind-blowing choreography.

N-POWER closes the show on and is, of course, insanely tight. The crowd goes absolutely batshit. This makes Adam’s legions of fans seem tame. The choreography is aggressive and suggestive, especially by Korean standards. Cho-Ji, unsurprisingly, has been assigned some seriously NC-17 moves. He may not technically be the best dancer in the group, but they all know he’s the sexiest one, and they always milk it. Not that I have watched numerous hours of his videos, replaying certain parts. Researching K-pop is part of my job now. Ahem. 

I have been stripped of my illusion that the audience is invisible to the performers, so I’m ready when he spots us right in front. He can’t miss my transformation. For three or four unbelievably long seconds he looks right at me, showing a choreographed snarl as he does a body roll, running his hand from his throat, down his bare chest and over his abs beneath his shirt, all on the way to way to grabbing his crotch and finishing off with a shameless pelvic thrust. I’ll be filing that one away for later. The screams are deafening. Then he’s off on the other side of the formation and the guys all basically hump the stage. 

Hilariously, Adam puts his arm around my head and covers my eyes. “Don’t look at this. You’re too young for this kind of show.” It is delightful to see him beaming, having so much fun, cheering like a fan, and studying everything every performer does. But I can’t imagine him incorporating one single part of this into his own shows. His dancers, maybe. But he makes love to his audience with his face and emotions, not with gyrations. 

This show was one of the very few times either of us got to relax and have fun on the trip.


	16. I Meet My Contact

It’s day seven, the day before the Seoul concert. It’s rehearsal day. It turns out that I am an essential intermediary between Adam’s team and the venue’s people. But after rehearsal, everyone gets to take time off. Adam will rest in his room for the evening, so I’m free. I text the number on the phone the embassy gave me and the guy texts back. We’ll get together for a late lunch. He gives me the address and his name. 

It’s a restaurant at the top of a skyscraper. I have to show ID to get into the building, then give an elevator attendant the name on the reservation to access the restaurant. It’s a very nice place that would have a sweeping view of Seoul if the air quality were better. Not many people there. 

The host takes me to my table, where my companion is waiting. He rises and shakes my hand. He’s a regular, nondescript, 30-something Korean man. He introduces himself as Kim Min-Ho. He’s generically nice looking, generically dressed, a total average Kim. But an eye trained for observation sees that he is extremely fit. Like hard, military fit. And he is keeping an unusually close eye on our surroundings.

We chat in a mix of English and Korean and get acquainted in a vague way that somehow doesn’t include the usual things like where we are from or what we do. It’s another of those odd meetings I sometimes get sent on. He’s great at small talk, but the whole thing feels weird, like a nonromantic blind date. 

Finally, I ask if there is something in particular that we are supposed to talk about. Nope, this is just to get acquainted so we’ll know each other if we happen to meet again. OK, whatever. At the end of the meal, he pays with cash. I say I have to get back to my hotel and he casually mentions that he has to get back to Pyongyang. I freeze, my coffee cup halfway to my mouth. 

What? North Korea? I just had lunch with an American agent working in North Korea? That guy’s a spy! Holy shit! He winks at me and suggests that I take my time freshening up before I leave. He heads straight down the elevator. I loiter in the ladies room for about ten high-anxiety minutes. I feel nervous that I might be being watched. My hat and glasses are still in my bag, so I put those on and scurry out. I get into a taxi as quick as I can. 


	17. The Seoul Concert

The Seoul concert is our last night in Korea. We leave in the morning. I’m staying in Adam’s green room again. I just don’t want those images to be my last ones from this trip. This room isn’t a shrine to him. It’s a freaking temple. I’m completely overwhelmed by it. Even Adam pauses for a moment to take it in, but he is quickly interrupted by his father, making him focus on the job at hand rather than the offerings of his worshippers. The pre-show preparations are the same as last time, then everyone rolls out and the show begins to the sounds of thousands of screaming fans.

I’m so tired that I pass out on a sofa, listening to Adam sing. I wake up to his triumphant return. After the show, the ruckus avalanches into the room, and I sit up, sleepy and blinking. When he comes down, he’s 100% superstar, putting off light and heat, forging new elements in his heart, while everything whirls around him. Being the last show of this leg, it’s even more than in Busan. I’m so happy for him; it was really important to do well in Seoul. He makes the rounds of the room taking in everyone’s hugs and cheers and applause and gathering armloads of flowers. Every time he passes a bouquet to someone else, more appear. 

The lucky Korean fans with backstage passes speak English. He doesn’t need me to interpret. From the safety of the sofa, I watch everyone pay tribute. I just give him a thumbs up when he glances my way. It takes him 30 minutes to make his way to my side of the room, hugging, taking pictures, smiling, signing things, accepting gifts, high as a kite on adrenaline, success, and adoration. Everyone he looks at seems to swoon before him. It’s incredible to watch. 

When he reaches me, he plops down on the sofa beside me. He turns to me and unleashes upon me the most beatific, radiant look I have ever seen in my life. His dark eyes are huge and glowing. Joy and love are pouring off him. He truly has the face of an angel. I feel like St. Teresa, pierced by the arrow of divine love. Like a fan, I can’t breathe for a moment.

He hands me the bouquet he’s carrying. “Ready to go?” he asks. I’m so stunned by his face and sudden attention that I truly can’t answer. One minute I’ve only barely been promoted to a little moon, then in the next, in his moment of glory, with 150 people worshipping him backstage and 20,000 worshipping him from the stands, when the night is over, he comes to me like I’m the one he’s leaving with. I know it’s just habit after a week connected at the hip. You can’t go anywhere without your shadow, after all. But in that moment, I feel like a very special girl indeed. 

We both stand, then he’s off to change out of sweat-soaked clothes, and in another ten minutes we are all being swept out with performers and gear and the whole entourage. 

In the van I’m opposite Adam, crushed between the door and Vanya and Rashid. He’s next to his parents. The floor is full of gift bags up to our knees and there must be 20 bouquets of flowers on our various laps. I’m still holding the giant one Adam gave me, white roses and purple freesia. I truly don’t know how I ended up in this van with the star and these planets. This is way too presumptuous of me. A little moon like me doesn’t belong here. Even Amelia is riding with the musicians. I should be in Dilshad’s van, like after Busan. They are talking and laughing, mostly Russian mixed with some Sanzhar, still buzzing. I feel out of place and try to be invisible.

The hotel is about fifteen minutes from the stadium. I watch the dazzling lights of Seoul go by through the window and bury my face in my fragrant flowers. The movement of the van is making me sleepy again. Since I bought my plane tickets separately, I’ll be heading out much earlier tomorrow than everyone else. Tonight is the end of the most exciting and tiring seven days of my career. As we pull up in front of the hotel, Adam is looking at me. The glow has not faded at all. He leans forward and speaks to me in English. He is slow and careful choosing his words.

It’s goodbye. 

“Katya. I would not have survived this week without you. I cannot tell you how very much, very much it meant to have you by my side. Thank you so much for coming. Really.” He speaks so forcefully, his emotions so strong that I feel like they are pushing right through my body into the seat behind me, again pushing my breath right out of my chest. 

He is glorious, still with the fire and beauty of an angel – there’s no other way to describe him. I’m powerless before it. Oh, boy. I could seriously fall for this guy if I’m not careful. Fortunately, I am a very careful girl. I manage to say, most cordially, “My pleasure. Thank you for having me.” 

We disembark into the chaos of 30 musicians, dancers, staff, and family hugging and grabbing gear and bags, all clamoring for Adam’s attention. The planets sort through all the gifts and hand flowers off to the hotel staff with instructions to send them to the nearest hospital or nursing home. I slip off to my room, pack up, set my alarm for four hours from now, and crash. The next morning the hotel is silent as I get into a cab and leave Seoul. I feel incredibly let down to be returning to my mundane life after all this.


	18. An Unexpected Offer

Back to my regular life, I translate documents, research, attend meetings, hang in the background. It’s steady work with no clear point or direction for me. It isn’t excruciatingly dull, except compared to the week I just spent in Korea. 

The most interesting thing I do is help out at a negotiation of some coal exchanges between Mongolia and Russia. It’s ostensibly about coal but really about ensuring the security of the Mongolian coal magnate’s mistress when she travels to Saint Petersburg the following month. I am able to read between the lines and ensure that everyone understands each other without mentioning the word mistress or her name.

A week after I get back from Korea, I get a check for $7000, not the half we agreed on. I could make a fuss, but having seen the tour behind the scenes, I suspect that really is a drop in the tour-budget bucket. I won’t insult him by trying to return any. Maybe I’ll donate some to a charity in his name or something. He’s affiliated with a few, and it’s not like I need it. 

I consider my last conversation with Cho-Ji and decide I’ll buy some clothes. I have decided to allow myself to look a little nicer, at least when I’m off work. Nothing flashy, of course, but maybe not so middle aged and monochromatic.

The check is signed by Dilshad. The memo line says “thank you” in English, underlined three times, in different handwriting. It is really nice to be so appreciated. I don’t get that kind of response at this job.

Robert asks me out for what might or might not be a date at a firing range. What could be more American? He’s getting recertified as an instructor. I might as well learn something. There’s nothing wrong with knowing how to use a gun safely. They didn’t teach weapons in Spy 101 or 201. I think about Min-Ho. He’s probably a weapons expert. If they wanted me to have a pointless late lunch with him, they must be imagining that I might work with him at some point. Knowing how to use a gun suddenly seems bizarrely wise.

Robert seems a little off, a little grim, like this isn’t his idea of a good time either. I suspect he was put up to this. However, we do get to have some of those stereotypical firing range moments where he has to stand behind me and help me aim. Chemistry or no, feeling a nice, solid man’s arms around me is pretty pleasant. I do a decent job shooting for my first time. I’ll have to practice quite a bit before I feel confident. I go home with the smell of gunpowder on me. I’ll keep going back until I’m hitting the target consistently.

It’s been eight months here, longer than I anticipated, but it’s been fine. It’s been good, actually. The trip to Korea really solidified things with the musical side of Amelia’s friend group, which has started to become genuinely my friend group. Elena and Saraiya both seem to really like me, and while they and Amelia all have totally different personalities, I really like them all too. I have settled into a really nice social life. I get to go out, I get to babysit sometimes, I get invited to evenings at people’s houses. I’m even meeting some nice guys from time to time, not that anything ever seems to come of it. Between that, work, and practicing at the range, I’m almost too busy. 

Adam has even made a couple of appearances, to everyone’s surprise. Off work he’s all jeans and t-shirts and down jackets, just a regular Sanzhar guy like all the others. No fashion model, no stage beast, no glowing angel. No stylists, thank God, so he’s merely good looking at a regular, manageable, human level.

And no weird post-show type energy either. I’m nervous to see him after our last encounter in the van, but it turns out to be nothing. He greets me with a handshake, pays me no special attention. He does flatter me by telling everyone how indispensable I was in Korea, but that’s it. All very cordial and professional, almost oddly so given how personal some of our conversations in Korea were and how intense some of those moments were. So I was right. That really is just how he is after a show. 

These evenings are beautiful, full of friendship and music. Eventually instruments come out and the night becomes a singalong with bits and pieces of everything from nursery songs for the kids, to folk songs they all know, to music on the radio now, to their own music. I get to just listen and enjoy the glow. The couple of nights that Adam joins, hearing him sing with friends is magical. He never overpowers, but he still mesmerizes everyone. He can’t help it.

As wonderful as it is, it’s almost painful at times to see all my friends with their families, taking their domestic bliss for granted. As I watch Rashid hand Amelia their toddler, I can’t help wondering if I’ll ever have something like this for myself. I hope I’ll be able to settle down in Moscow, meet somebody nice, have a family, find another a group of friends like this. Play peek-a-boo with my own child at a party the way Amelia is doing with little Anya now. 

My guard must be down, my feelings showing, because Adam comes and sits next to me. He says nothing, but he regards me for a moment and then pats my back. I know he’s remembering what I told him about my family, giving me some silent sympathy. He stays with me like that for a few minutes, watching Amelia and Anya play.

“Anya, come here,” he calls. Anya adores him and obeys him immediately. Adam picks her up, squeezes and kisses her, then holds her toward me. “Give your aunt Katya a kiss.” Anya puts her little arms around my neck, Adam holding her by the waist, and covers my face in wet two-year-old kisses. 

Oh, right. Toddlers are cute, but gross. But I feel immediately better. I can’t help laughing as I kiss her back. “Ugh, enough. Thank you, Anya!” Adam, smiling now, puts Anya down and heads off. It’s our only remotely personal interaction since Korea. It will be a nice memory to take to Moscow.

And it’s time to go. I finally get word that the Moscow Asian languages interpreter is retiring and they will be ready for me in a few weeks. I’ll miss this a lot. I have never had anything like this. Even though I know Amelia just took me in as an act of hospitality to a visitor to her country, I now feel like a real part of the group, on my own merit, not just because I’m somebody’s girlfriend like I was back in New York. 

I’d like to think that we’ll all still be friends even after I move to Moscow, but that’s not likely. I know how it is when you move away; I’ve done it a lot. Moscow is a three and a half hour flight from here. Not impossibly far, but far enough to make a weekend visit pretty inconvenient. Work won’t bring me back to Sanzharistan, so it’s not likely I’ll be back at all.

I’m going to be alone again, starting over again. I actually cry a little the next weekend when I have dinner with Amelia and tell her that I’ll be leaving in two weeks. She cries unreservedly. She didn’t believe I was really going to leave. 

On Monday, though, I get a call from Dilshad, asking me to come by his office. To my shock, he’s making me a job offer. The is the biggest year of Adam’s career. Now that the first tour dates are behind them, Adam will be spending the next several months finishing his second album, this one anticipated for global release right before the next leg of the tour. It will be called Ambassador. Dilshad thought that would amuse me. 

Adam’s schedule will be varied but busy. When he’s not in the studio he’s going to be traveling extensively all over the hemisphere promoting the album and the rest of the tour. He doesn’t want to spend significant time abroad again without his own interpreter. When he has to deal with these media circuses, he wants the kind of support I provide. 

When I’m not traveling with him, I’d be in the office. Saraiya will be expanding their website and social media presence into more languages. It has to be done carefully to present the right image for each market. They need more than a translator; they need somebody who is culturally literate in several cultures. They could use an in-house person for the business side as well. There will be a lot of negotiations with foreign media companies, contracts coming in in various languages, dealing with the foreign press. Someone to help the lawyers from time to time. It sounds like a big job.

Then the next two legs of the tour. Eleven more solo concerts in three months and everything that goes with it. The Americas in July and August. Sau Paulo, Rio, Buenos Aires, Bogota, Lima, Mexico City, and finally Adam’s much anticipated first US solo concert, in Los Angeles. A short break after that, then Western Europe in September. Berlin, London, Paris, Rome. The team will need somebody who speaks the languages traveling with them. 

Given all this, they are ready to add an international expert full time. The tour ends October 1, eight months from now. He wants me to commit to stay through then. What happens after that depends on how well Adam does. Things might settle down or they might need my skills even more. Hopefully, there will be foreign labels and talent agencies knocking down his door.

It’s so tempting. I wouldn’t have to give up my life here. I’d be working and traveling with many of my new friends. Dilshad is willing to pay me significantly more than I make at the embassy. My government wages aren’t impressive, but it’s still nice that Dilshad is willing to outbid them. It’s also an exciting offer. There’s no denying that the work I have done for the team is a lot more fun and stimulating than what I’ve been doing for the embassy. 

But this is a totally different career path than the one I have been pursuing doggedly for half my life. I can’t switch tracks right when I’m about to go to Moscow and really start my diplomatic career. Certainly not when there’s no way of telling whether I’d even continue with Dilshad after the tour ends. I’m flattered, but it just makes no sense at all as a career move.

To be polite, I tell Dilshad I’ll consider it, but I know I won’t take it. The next morning I tell my boss about the offer. My boss reassures me that I’m making the right decision. But then, at the end of the day, he calls me into his office. The Ambassador herself is also there. This is a small embassy, but I’m still impressed. My boss speaks.

“Kate, I think it’s only fair that we level with you.”

I’m worried.

“This position in Moscow isn’t going to be what you think it is. It’s really just going to be the same kinds of things you’ve been doing here. There’s not a clear career trajectory from this position either. The person who just left was there for over 20 years and never advanced beyond a support role.”

I’m shocked to hear this.

“We know you want to play a bigger part, and with your qualifications, you should. This job isn’t the way for you to get there.”

This is quite a switch from this morning. I’m trying to process it.

“So, you think I should stay here? Not go to Moscow?”

“You know you’ve just been spinning your wheels here. It’s just been busy work.”

Of course it has felt like that, but it smarts to hear it stated so clearly. I don’t know why, after eight months, he feels compelled to tell me that my service means so little.

“What are you saying?”

“We think you should wait until something more appropriate to your long-term objectives becomes available. In the meantime, I am saying that you should seriously consider working with Zapatenov. Do something different while you wait. Expand your horizons. You’d still be traveling, keeping your language skills sharp. Bide your time while you wait for the right opportunity with State. Plus, it sounds like a lot more fun than what we do here, especially for someone your age. Honestly, we’re all a little jealous.”

This sounds like they are firing me.

“Are you firing me?”

“No, not at all!”

“But you want me to quit.”

“Not exactly.”

I can’t believe this. “I don’t want to leave the Foreign Service.”

“Of course not. Don’t think of it as leaving. It would only be temporary, while you wait for the right position in Moscow, or maybe Seoul. And you wouldn’t be treated like a new hire when it happens. It would be like an inside promotion, like you had never left. Think of it as a longer-term special assignment.”

“Oh...kay...” I’m starting to wrap my head around it.

The Ambassador then speaks to me.

“Kate, you’d be doing your country a service. There’s almost nothing better you could do for US-SZ relations right now than directly support Adam’s career. They want you, and the Minister of Culture has already called me to see if we can work something out.” Whoa. Really?

The feeling in the room shifts suspiciously as she continues. “So, we’d like you to take the job but stay available for discrete projects. We may ask you to go to meetings from time to time, or events. Sometimes we may need you to interpret. Sometimes we might ask you just to listen in and tell us what you hear. Things like that. Since you’ll be traveling anyway, there could be synergies from time to time.”

“While not working for State. Officially.”

“Yes.”

“I see.”

They both look like this is totally normal. It isn’t, though.

So instead of going to Moscow for a dead-end, boring job, I would stay here, work for Dilshad, make more money, keep my friends, live in Adam’s world of challenging work punctuated with glitzy events and beautiful music. I would still keep one foot in the diplomatic world doing occasional assignments for State that sound just a little bit like spy work, and when the right opportunity comes up, I’d be fast tracked into it. It sounds too good to be true, so I’m suspicious. But I can’t say that. 

“Then I guess I’ll do it.”

“It’s the right choice,” the Ambassador says. “I’ll call the Minister now. Why don’t you call Dilshad and tell him you can start Monday.” 

Monday? I guess I won’t let the door hit me in the ass on the way out.


	19. Welcome to the Team

I can’t believe I’m doing this, but here I go. It’s clear to me that the very first thing I have to do is come to terms with how attractive Adam is. I cannot work effectively on his team if I allow myself to develop a crush on him. Despite those couple of somewhat suggestive moments after his shows, he is the very definition of unattainable, between his career and the glaringly obvious fact that he will marry a lovely young thing from his own culture and religion in the next few years. I am not the kind of foolish masochist who gets attached to unavailable men. Plus, I’m not really available either, not to somebody here. I will surely get called to Moscow within the year. 

So yes, he is very attractive and very likable, but I am nothing if not disciplined and pragmatic. Amelia and Saraiya know how desirable he is and yet they manage just fine. So can I. Of course, they’re married. Then again, Elena is married and she is a fool for Adam. Maybe it’s because she doesn’t work with him directly; he’s more of a fantasy to her, like he is to his fans. I will be right beside him, hand in glove. Fantasies and illusions don’t last long in such close quarters. 

I can do this. I’ll save my celebrity crush for Cho-Ji, who is so unattainable that there’s no harm in daydreaming. Adam will be my client at work and might occasionally be one of the guys socially. I will be like Amelia and the other women, admiring but appropriate.

On Friday, March 5, I officially leave the Foreign Service, and on Monday, March 8, I join the entertainment industry. It seems telling that I have no personal items to bring with me from my cubicle at the embassy. My lanyard and pass from Omsk, which I had tacked to the cubicle divider, was its only decoration. I’m not sure whether it would be weird to tack it to the wall at Dilshad’s office, so I leave it at home. I dress in workday boring: black pants, blue dress shirt, sensible shoes. My only concession to my new career is that I leave my hair down. I grab my bag and get a bus. 

Dilshad’s office isn’t far from my apartment building. It is a little suite of rooms he is renting in a large recording studio complex in a two-story building on the edge of downtown. My new digs are not glamorous. The suite has a private office for Dilshad, a shabby glass-walled conference room entirely unsuitable for meetings with big league music industry executives, and a kitchenette with a door leading to a nice little courtyard where I’m sure I’ll spend a lot of time when the weather is warmer. 

The last room is more of a large antechamber outside the conference room, decorated primarily with framed pictures of Adam and a few other artists in garb either traditional or painfully dated. It has three desks pushed against its three walls: one for me; one for Saraiya, and one for another guy. The other guy is there basically doing Dilshad’s entire job managing his other clients, who appear occasionally, as Dilshad devotes himself pretty much full time to Adam now. They are strictly local talent, trapped in a second-world folk-pop scene without an inch of international reach. I will have nothing to do with them. I’m assigned exclusively to Adam, as is Saraiya. 

My orientation mainly consists of Dilshad pointing at these areas from the middle of the suite. For the next few months, most of my job will be in the office, working with Ismail, Saraiya, and Dilshad. Ismail is also devoted full time to Adam’s career, but he mainly works from his home office, which I’m sure is much nicer than this one. He will only appear for occasional meetings. 

That same home is equipped with an excellent studio where Adam does most of his work while songs are in development. One of the studios in the building is leased exclusively to him for the summer, so he can record whenever the muse strikes, but in general he only works here when he’s close to cutting the final version of a song. I might see him and the other musicians if they stop by the kitchen while working in the studio, but that’s about it. I’m disappointed that this means I will rarely encounter my friends at work. It also means that I should expect to see Adam almost exclusively when I’m supporting him at appearances. 

Saraiya is thrilled to have another woman in the office, and especially thrilled that it’s her new friend. Saraiya will be easy to work with. She’s very smart and competent as well as friendly. She gives me my first task: to go over Adam’s Russian-language website with her and strategize creating versions of that in every language I know, tailored to the differences in the audience’s preferences in each market, which she has researched. He has a slightly different image in each country. It makes sense, given his versatility, but it presents challenges. I begin to see the needs I can fulfil here. 

Toward the end of my first day, after Saraiya has left, I am at my desk absorbed in the website. On one monitor is a mock-up of an English language version that Saraiya has started. On the other is a folder with thousands of images of Adam of every imaginable type: on stage, photo shoots, candids, selfies. All of his looks are represented: rock star, pop star, matinee idol, debonair and slicked back, soft and approachable, tousled and sultry. These will need to be categorized somehow for quicker access. Fans on social media need daily feedings and they like different diets in different parts of the world. That, fortunately, is Saraiya’s job.

I sense a presence. Adam has come in. He sits down at the chair at the side of my desk. It’s against the wall, facing me. He looks freshly showered. Today he is the regular guy. His jeans, t-shirt, sneakers, and ball cap look fashionable and expensive but unpretentious. He doesn’t seem to notice his own image staring at him from all sides. Of course this is nothing compared to his green rooms. I guess you can get used to anything.

“Welcome to the team.” He seems quiet and serene today.

“Thank you. I’m happy to be here. I think.” I indicate my unfamiliar surroundings. “I was surprised to get the offer.”

“Why? We work so well together.”

“Thank you. It’s kind of you to say so.” I have a cache of stock replies for awkward situations, and I feel a little awkward. The power balance between us has shifted now that I am essentially his employee rather than a friend-of-a-friend or an American government official doing him a favor. I have gone from being a visitor from another solar system to a little moon in the one where he’s the star. I’m comfortable supporting the people I work for, but I’m not completely comfortable with how subordinate I feel now.

I answer him. “I guess I just didn’t think you guys would need someone like me full time.”

“Not like you,” he says in bemusement. “You, specifically. Now that I have worked with you, I do not want to work without you. You spoiled me.”

“That is very kind of you. I hope I can be helpful.” I shrug. “In any case, I’m all yours now.” He looks down and nods. “Good timing, too. I was just reassigned to Moscow. I was going to move next week.”

He looks back up. “Yes, I know.”

I’m taken aback. “You do?” My wheels turn. “Is this not a coincidence?” 

“Of course not.” He grins mischievously. “Keeping you in Sanzharistan is part of my master plan.” I laugh. Korea was so stressful that his sense of humor didn’t come out much. It’s nice to see it again. 

“I guess world domination requires specialized staff.”

“It does. Why did you agree to join us?”

“Honestly, I wasn’t going to. The Ambassador herself told me I should take it. She said that job in Moscow wasn’t right for me, and that I was wasting my time at the embassy here. She thought it was better to do this while I wait for the right job.” I don’t mention that I know the Minister of Culture applied some pressure as well. “But also, I like this work. Korea was really hard, but I felt like I was helpful.”

“You were more than helpful.”

“Thanks. And it was fun. A lot more fun than most of what I do at the embassy.”

“Good. I’m very glad to have you here. I hope you like working with us. We will be very busy, but we will have fun.” I note how he refers to the team like it isn’t all about him, even though it’s totally all about him. It could be very different with a different star.

“I’m sure I will. Thank you.”

He pats my desk, oddly, and heads off. That was less awkward than I feared. And there was not even the slightest whiff of any of that intense energy from before. This is going to be fine.

I get to write my own announcement describing my addition to the team. I give myself the pretentious title “Interpreter and International Media Liaison.” I include that I am an American with PhDs in International Relations and Asian Studies and a background working for rich, famous, important people around the world. I don’t include the American government specifically. I know to keep that part of my profile low.

I post it to Adam’s various social media accounts. This is not the kind of post that anyone’s fans would be particularly excited about, so there aren’t many comments. But one pops up from a verified account that immediately catches my eye. Holy cow, it’s from Cho-Ji. 

“Congratulations! We all need a person like that by our side.” After it is an emoji – pink sunglasses. There’s only one explanation. He’s talking to me. 

I reply. “Thank you. Looking forward to where we’re going next.” That response works for both Adam and me. I follow it with an emoji of my own – a horse’s saddle. I think he’ll get it.

He replies “I hope we run into each other wherever that is,” along with a string of emojis that only I would understand. A winking smiley face, thumbs up, waving hands, and a string of flags: Sanzharistan for Adam, South Korea for Cho-Ji, the United States for me, Italy and Russia (where we met the first two times), and Germany for our private joke. He’s saying he knows it’s me.

Although I am squealing internally, I decide to keep my dignity and just reply with waving hands. 

Wow. I just covertly Instagram chatted with Song Cho-Ji. This really is unreal. For a moment I wonder if I should open my own social media accounts so that Cho-Ji can communicate with me directly, because obviously he must be dying to do so and is suffering terribly that the only way that he can reach me is in code over Adam’s Instagram account. After a good laugh, I don’t. I still like not having a social media footprint of my own.


	20. Moonlighting

It looks like this stage of my career really will consist of a mix of working for Dilshad and doing side jobs for Uncle Sam. The embassy is true to its word and sends me out on some suspiciously spy-like errands. I can’t say it’s a total surprise. When I first applied to the Foreign Service, they fell all over themselves to hire me. They loved my background, my education, my mobility, and the fact that I didn’t have any social media footprint. They called me a “unicorn.” 

Right after I joined, some of my training seemed to be related to my job as an interpreter and aide, but quite a bit of it did not. I was given specific lessons on how make small talk, to draw people out of their shells, to build trust. To observe. To be visible or invisible. To dance, to flirt, to eat at settings with 12 pieces of silverware or nothing but banana leaves. To play the most popular parlor games, to appear to smoke or drink or even take drugs as the occasion calls for it. To fit in easily anywhere. 

I was strongly encouraged to stay fit. They trained me in self-defense. They instructed me to get a contraceptive implant – the pill isn’t reliable enough and can be confiscated in some countries. It didn’t matter that I didn’t have a partner, they said. In the Foreign Service you never know where you might have to go, or what you might have to do, at the drop of a hat. 

During the two years I spent traveling the world as an interpreter, I did use that training on occasion. Sometimes I’d be asked to keep my eyes and ears open for something in particular, like which wives and children were traveling with a particular Sheik, or whether a particular corporate executive might be increasing his cocaine usage. Deliver a package on the side. Leave a book they gave me on a bookshelf in someone’s office.

I started to suspect that the reason I got some of the plum assignments I did was because the people on the other side were sure to underestimate such a young, pretty woman and drop their guards, letting slip things they should not. Especially if they didn’t know what languages I spoke. I’m starting to suspect that this is what my employer has in mind for me now too.

The first weekend after I join Adam’s team, I fly to Dushanbe, Tajikistan, and deliver a diplomatic pouch to an embassy contact with whom I had one of those vague lunches a couple of months ago. Getting there is a brutal 20 hours and two layovers. Six hours of sleep at a grim local hotel, cash payment, even though both a Hilton and a Hyatt were right by the airport, then immediately back to Izmir. That’s fine with me. I deliberately did not specialize in this part of the world. 

Two weekends later is another such delivery but this time to beautiful Chengdu, China. My contact is another of my recent Foreign Service lunch companions. When I arrive, he briefs me. He is posing as a textiles dealer. Tonight I will be playing the role of his daughter, who has come for a visit to take advantage of dad’s extended stay in the city. 

We will go to a party in the historic heart of the city with executives and employees of a local clothing manufacturer. I am to pretend that I don’t speak anything beyond the most basic, essential tourist Chinese. That’s it. No other task. However, we have a stop to make on the way to the party. It’s underway already and I feel anxious that we are going to be late. 

The stop is at what appears to be a textiles factory. There’s no security and nobody around; it’s not that interesting a place. We step up to the office door. My contact jiggles the handle. “It’s locked,” he says. 

I look at him expectantly. I assume we’re going to turn around and leave. He’s looking back at me. “It’s locked,” he says again. 

Oh. I see. “I didn’t bring my picks.”

He pulls out a slim wallet and hands it to me. It’s a basic set just like my own. “From now on, make sure you keep them with you.”

Although I’m sure he knows how to do this himself, I pick the lock: an easy, standard doorknob lock. It opens right up.

“Wait here.”

He is in the office for only a minute. I have know idea what he did; whether he planted something or took something. I know better than to ask.

At the party, I just stand beside him and look approachable and pretend not to understand his conversations about fabric. When it’s over, even though I didn’t do anything, he says I was perfect. My fantasy of headset by day and handgun at night starts to seem a little less fantastic, though no more desirable. 

Back in Izmir, my debriefing is quick and painless. My boss thanks me for my service and laughingly tells me not to go becoming an Instagram influencer or anything just because I’m in the entertainment industry now. My lack of social media footprint is still one of their favorite things about me. There’s a hard look in his eye that says he’s laughing but not joking. Noted.

The next day two payments amounting to $762.39 appear in my checking account courtesy of Global Translation Services, Inc. Roughly eight bucks an hour. Moonlighting for the Foreign Service isn’t even a minimum wage job, evidently. Good thing I have my other job. 


	21. Live on Love

At the other job, although the tour doesn’t start again until August, nearly five months from now, we are indeed very busy. I spend a lot of time with Dilshad and Saraiya, as I expected, but much more time with the artists than I thought I would. Dilshad has eased up on Adam’s appearance schedule for March so he can work on music and rest up after the eight concerts he just gave, hence my free weekends for embassy work. 

However, contrary to expectations, Adam is in the studio almost daily, wanting to hear his progress in higher fidelity than his home studio can provide. He and the other musicians are back and forth between the studio and the office space quite a bit. Although they come in mainly for the kitchen, after a while, the conference room becomes the hangout spot for the whole group. The room fills up with snacks, jackets, various gear and equipment cases, odds and ends that people stash there and seem to forget about, utterly losing its usefulness for business purposes.

After a few weeks, it seems that the office is constantly ebbing and flowing with team members and creative energy. I have mainly known them socially until now. It’s really cool to see them in their professional, creative, mode, debating harmonies and instrumentation, bursting into song with a purpose. When Adam is the one singing, the office staff all just freeze and listen. Even when he’s playing around it’s beautiful.

I’m getting to know all the team members much better and like most of them more and more. And soon I don’t feel as subordinate as I thought I would. Adam treats everyone like they really are a team. He acts like he’s just the front man for our common enterprise rather the whole reason the enterprise exists at all. Of course, the moment he says something cocky, his dad or one of his old friends is right there to slap him down. He really has no opportunity to be a jerk.

Right now I’m mostly working with Saraiya on the different versions of his website. I’m translating a backlog of his appearances into various languages and posting them on YouTube and other platforms. 

Most of the performances he has online already have subtitles in a few languages, so I mercifully don’t have to spend a lot of time watching closeup views of him on stage. I may be able to deal with his regular attractiveness but I don’t need to fight off the stage version of him every day. 

But those videos are incredibly important. Dilshad’s marketing strategy until now appears to have been viral spread into other countries almost through YouTube alone. We barely have an advertising budget. I’m not sure that’s going to work in London, Paris, or Los Angeles, but ticket sales to the fall shows keep creeping up even though they are still months away, so something is happening. I mean really, Adam sells himself. People just have to hear him. Then they look at him. Get them to watch him charm his way through an interview or two and they are his.

One perk to Adam working in here rather than at home is that Saraiya and I get to hear some of the works in progress. These are closely guarded; typically only his collaborators would hear any of it. His Russian drummer and bass guitarist have come into town to lay down their parts on a new song, and now Adam has a version he’s ready to let a few people hear. 

He calls the office and asks Dilshad to send us down. He needs the opinion of some women; we are his primary audience. When we get to the control room, Rashid is already there with the musicians. Saraiya and I join them. Adam cautions us. “This is still an early version. I just want your impressions.”

The song is in Russian. It sounds good, but it’s one of those songs about how love conquers all. I don’t mean to, but I let out a sigh of mild exasperation when it is over. 

Adam notices. “What? You don’t like it?”

“I like the music. You sound great.”

“But you don’t like something.”

“I don’t love the lyrics.”

“What’s wrong with them?

It doesn’t feel like my place to criticize, but he did ask. “I’m sorry. I just can’t take songs like this. I don’t know what you’ve experienced, but I learned that the hard way that love is not all you need.”

Saraiya is intrigued. “The hard way?”

Hmm. This is work, should I be sharing personal information about my ex-boyfriend? 

I met David at a departmental party that summer. Although he was an assistant professor in Russian studies and I was a new Asian studies grad student, we had a lot in common. David had a loving and loyal heart, which was the main thing that attracted me to him. I knew he’d never leave me. 

But he had issues. He had an abrasive, angry side. He had trouble getting along with his peers, as well as his students. That contributed to his heavy drinking, which bothered me a little at first, then came to repulse me. However, my years of solitude taught me to place a very high value on the people who care about me and I did love having a social life, so I stayed with him.

When I was 22 and about to receive my two PhDs, David’s personality problems came home to roost. He found out his committee was not going to recommend him for tenure, that he was losing his job and would have to go on the market. He proposed to me in desperation. 

I said no. I loved him but I didn’t respect him enough to marry him and I didn’t want to be saddled with his issues. It was brutal and heartbreaking, but the right thing to do. Of course it meant that I not only lost him, but my entire social circle. I was completely alone. Again.

I decide to give my friends the abbreviated version. They do seem awfully interested. 

“Yes. I almost married somebody once, but I had to end it because,” I make a dramatic gesture, “love isn’t enough. Sorry to be so cynical.”

“You were engaged?” Saraiya looks surprised.

“No, I broke it off when he proposed. But we were together for three years.”

“Three years and you didn’t get married?” She’s amazed.

“That’s how it is in the US. I was only 19 when we started dating. We don’t get married that young. Or at least educated people don’t.”

“Why did you say no after that long?” Man, everybody is really paying attention. I feel a little exposed. I guess American-style relationships are pretty fascinating to people here.

“Mostly because he had anger issues. He wouldn’t take responsibility for the problems it caused him. Minor substance abuse.”

Adam, looking thoughtful, says, “The strong man is the one who has control over his own anger.” It sounds like a saying.

Saraiya can’t wrap her head around any of this. “Then why were you with him at all?”

“Probably because my last remaining family member had just died.” I see Adam wince, reminded of my story. Little gasps circulate among everyone else. “I needed someone. And I loved him.”

“I could never walk away from a man I loved.”

I shrug. “I could. It was actually worse walking away from all our friends.” I feel a reaction ripple around the room.

“If you loved him, how could you leave him?”

I glance around. Everyone seems very interested, but this is pretty personal stuff and not what we are here for. Heavy sigh. “Well, I loved him because he was very loving and very loyal. But ultimately, I needed a man I could look up to, and he wasn’t one.”

“You’re going to have a hard time finding a man, then.”

“Saraiya! That’s not very nice.”

Saraiya is sharp as well as sweet. She explains quickly. For some reason, though, she seems inappropriately amused. She’s almost laughing. “For you to look up to a man, he has to be your superior in some ways, right? This is a problem for you. Forget superior. I just don’t know where you could possibly find a man who would even be your equal, who is as accomplished as you are, plus gorgeous, hardworking, kind ...”

Deadpan, Adam interjects, “... talented, rich, famous ...” 

Opportunity looms before me. “Oh, I think I can find a man like that. There are nine in N-POWER and one of them definitely noticed me.”

Burn! The room erupts in howls of laughter. Nobody ever disses Adam like that, not even jokingly. “Molodetz, molodetz,” he says in Russian. “Well done, well done.”

I continue. “But whatever. Nobody wants a realistic love song. Keep it like it is. Live on love.”

“Oooh!” Rashid exclaims.

“There’s the title,” says Adam.

“I have some ideas,” Rashid replies and the two of them immediately huddle over the desk, pointing at parts of the lyrics on a monitor. The creative process is underway and I no longer exist. I feel like I earned points with everyone in the room, and head back to my desk feeling satisfied.


	22. Settling In

Back at the office, I’m keeping quite busy. I’m useful in ways I didn’t expect, like explaining that Adam needs to make sure he takes credit as a songwriter and publisher whenever he can, because in the Capitalist States of America, not only the profits, but the glory and credit, go to whoever owns the music, not who performs it. He won’t be eligible for a lot of awards or royalties for his own music if he’s just the singer. 

I field calls from multiple nations, review contracts that he invariably rejects as limiting his creative freedom too much. They even let me try my hand at translating some lyrics for subtitles on his videos.

My social media responsibilities are just as backup to Saraiya, but they have given me an opportunity to keep up what sure feels like an online flirtation with Cho-Ji. Since that first little exchange, we’ve had three or four more. N-POWER is constantly dumping social media content out so I have plenty of opportunities to comment, on Adam’s behalf of course, on one thing or another. I always get some little acknowledgement and some little clue that Cho-Ji knows he’s talking to me. A couple of times he actually comments on something of Adam’s with the same little clues. 

While it all leaves me absurdly thrilled, I can’t help obsessing over whether I’m imagining the whole thing. But at the very end of March, we are back in Busan for two blitzkrieg days very much like the ones back in February. We’re on our game, sharp, a well-oiled machine. Working with Adam this way is for sure my favorite part of the job. We post a promo for a TV interview that will air the next day. I’m visible off to the side. Cho-Ji responds with an enthusiastic welcome to Korea, a forceful invitation to watch a live stream he’s doing later that night, and some emojis meant for me.

I watch his live stream in my hotel room. The camera is tight on his dreamy face, his pillowy lips life-size on my tablet. He’s reading comments scrolling by at light speed, randomly grabbing questions to respond to. They are coming in in every language. A little smile crosses his face and he says, wistfully, “I wish I had my own interpreter here to help me with all this. I’d like to have somebody like that by my side. Having somebody like that would be nice.” 

Then he stops and just gazes into the camera for what must be ten solid seconds, brushing his now blonde hair off his forehead, looking unbelievably desirable. He’s way better at this than Adam. He channels his signature mixture of sexy, charming, and dreamy, and it’s like he’s looking right into my eyes. Then he makes that thumb and index finger heart under his chin, the one he made under both of us at the Victorias, and winks impishly. I gasp out loud. On impulse, I pick it up my tablet and kiss him right on his digital lips. 

I’m floored. That was meant for me. But if so, then probably every other line in the live stream was meant for another of the hundred or so women he’s probably doing the exact same thing with. These K-Pop idols pretend they don’t have social lives, but I bet this guy’s a total player. And the real irony is that Cho-Ji obviously does have an interpreter; the whole thing was being subtitled in English as he spoke. 

Adam watched it too. When we meet up the next morning, he laughingly raises a lecturing finger. “Listen here, interpreter. You belong to me. Don’t you forget that.”

“Possessive much?”

“You were warned.”

Oh right, I was.

We spend April traveling almost non-stop. Adam is very famous where he’s famous, but his reach is still limited. Dilshad and Ismail are having trouble scratching the surface in new markets, but they are relentless in promoting him where he’s known. Lots of media. These are more scheduled one-on-one interviews, late night shows where he sings one song and spends five minutes with the host. Visits to radio stations, same thing. Lots of spring festivals. Always something happening. I have no time for embassy side jobs this month.

Even when he doesn’t need my interpretation services, he likes my news feed in his ear, so I go with him everywhere that I might be useful. I spend a lot of nights researching for that and am on my game when we go out. It’s real, solid work and I get to be at my best. 

He’s doing so well, too. At appearances, he takes in everything I give him, processes it, filters it through his charisma, delivers his message, and everyone eats it up. He’s already well loved in this part of the world so I don’t have to help him fend off any of that hostility he faced in Korea. Still, he tells me that he feels invincible when we work together, which makes me feel pretty great.

The festivals are loads of fun. It’s much like the energy of his concerts but a fraction of the pressure. He only has to perform a few songs and the whole entourage gets to enjoy a day or two of music on his coattails. A few passing interviews, but no media gauntlets. 

Backstage, throngs of artists and their own entourages roaming around, everybody saying hello to each other, hugs all around, congratulations, high spirits, high energy. Adam, eyes out on the crowd, excited to see old colleagues and meet new people, admirers coming from all corners to tell him what a great job he did, what high hopes they have for his career, to shake his hand, wish him well, take selfies. He charms everyone, kisses kids, takes tons of photos, jokes around, all of us trailing in his wake. This is when he’s at his best. His family just beams with pride. Saraiya and Vanya document all of it.

On the road, I now have plenty of opportunity to get the know the star quite well. Frequently it’s just the two of us, as all the deal-making has been done and it’s just time for him to fulfill his obligations. We eat a lot of meals together. We spend a lot of time on planes, in cars, waiting in green rooms for him to go on whatever show has booked him. We use a lot of this time for him to practice English, working out the little grammar errors he makes, although I hope he never loses his accent. That accent will have the ladies of the West swooning for him once they discover him. The women of the East are already his. 

Initially I find it a little intimidating, but as we travel, I start to get used to the more or less constant background noise of women screaming his name and flocking around him, phones out, filming his every move. Usually they are safely behind some kind of barricade, but sometimes they are right in our faces. I am not comfortable with all the din and jostling. He doesn’t seem to mind it. He just wades through, smiling and giving out autographs, making sure I don’t get carried away by the tide. He’s efficient. In public like this, he’s all star.

In private, though, he’s just a person. All that English practice gives us an opportunity to get through all the facts and figures about both our lives pretty quickly. Before long we’re having real conversations about our values and beliefs. For two people with such wildly different lives and backgrounds, we see eye to eye on a lot. 

I don’t follow any particular religion, but I do believe in a higher power. His faith is an interesting amalgamation of Islam and the ancient beliefs and traditions of his people. He takes it very seriously. He believes that all our lives on earth are a test. God tests a man’s humility by giving him everything and tests his faith by giving him nothing. This one belief probably explains Adam better than anything else I have learned about him. He wants to get an A on that test. 

I share many of the values that he draws from his faith and I respect how hard he tries to live by them. In light of our conversations, I find myself thinking more consciously about my values than I usually do. I feel like a better person for it. That is not something that happened in my last job.

We talk about our goals. I still want to get to Moscow and start my real career in the Foreign Service. I’m not going to be interpreting for others or translating behind a desk forever. Eventually I hope to be at least an Embassy Counselor, if not a Career Minister. Ambassador is a political appointment. Those don’t usually go to people who rise up through the ranks. But you never know. 

On his part, he just hopes to expand his audience so that he can keep making music and performing as long as possible. The awards aren’t the driver, but there are a few he’d like to add to his collection. When the time comes to step off the stage, he’ll teach music at University. How practical and ordinary! He’s easy to like and respect, and he seems to like and respect me as well. That makes this job so much easier. 

We both want families, of course. Me later, him much later. My desire for a family of my own is the thing I hide at the very center of my being. It’s my deepest layer. I don’t make a fuss of course, but something in the way he looks at me gives me the sense that he can tell.

Most interesting, it’s now part of my job to know everything about his music. He’s on a creative roll these couple of months putting together the new album. The styles are surprisingly diverse. He can sing absolutely anything, from opera to metal (which, I learn from him, are not that different vocally) although he has a few genres that he sticks to most. Whatever the genre, most of his songs are about love: wanting love, finding love, being in love, suffering from love, losing love, remembering love. Some of them hint at physical love, but despite his stage presence, that part is kept very subtle. 

It amuses me coming from a man who has such strict limits on contact with women. It seems that there was a girlfriend of some sort at one time before his overnight success, but details are unclear. Now he does not date – at all. Dating is pretty much impossible between the requirements of his faith and those of his career. When he finds the right young Sanzhar beauty, he’s pretty much going to have to marry her immediately. So for now, all that energy goes into his music. 

He’s especially careful with physical contact. He doesn’t want accusations, broken hearts, or rumors. A woman’s role in his life can be gauged by nothing more than the degree to which he’s willing to touch her. 

He greets women in his extended family and the wives of his very close friends – women for whom his intentions could not possibly be mistaken – with a hug or a kiss on the cheek. Women outside that very close group, even those like me who he works with or knows well, can get a hug or the briefest of pecks on the cheek only on special occasions. Otherwise, we get handshakes, an arm around us for a photo, or, evidently, the occasional awkward pat on the back. Nothing else whatsoever. He is one careful guy, wisely.

It’s a total contrast to how he is with the women in his immediate family, as well as any and all men and kids. It turns out that Adam is overflowing with love and affection, and with them, he expresses it without limit. He hugs the guys long and hard, picks them off the ground, unrestrained and beaming. Kids get hugs and kisses, rides on his shoulders, wrestled with, tossed in the air. He crushes his mom and little sister in bear hugs, smothering their faces in kisses. His sister squirms and hates it.

I get to observe this because the whole family is in and out of the office and even travels with us sometimes, which means I’m getting to know them a little bit. His parents and grandparents are utterly dedicated to Adam’s happiness and success. They are also kind and smart, like he is. But what I notice most is how deeply traditional they are, how committed to their culture and country, a trait they have also passed on to Adam. It’s very different from American-style patriotism. It is rooted in a millennium of cultural history and at least a century of cultural oppression. Their pride runs deep.

Despite how well Adam and I get along and work together, when his family comes around, I become very aware of how fundamental our differences are. I am a non-Muslim, non-Sanzhar, non-Easterner, through and through, no matter how international my outlook. As welcoming as everyone is, I will always be an outsider in this country, culture, and company.

The family also makes me extremely aware that I am nowhere near being a planet. My status sometimes feels nebulous (space reference!) since I am by Adam’s side far more than anyone else. I’m pretty much everywhere he goes other than the stage, the recording booth, and his home. The family clears that ambiguity right up. I’m the star’s manager’s employee, absolutely a moon. I try to respect my place. When they and the other planets are around, I leave him to them and keep to myself for the most part. The system works well.

Still, I am becoming a pretty integrated into his entire solar system. In addition to the star, the planets, and the moons on our team in Sanzharistan, I get to know the little satellite moons in the places he visits the most. He has a little pocket of helpers in every port, and it seems like we are visiting one port or another every week.

The Chinese team is my favorite. He’s more pop idol there and they make him more approachable. Beautiful suits, soft hair, doll face. Dreamy. The Russians like him dangerous and sensual, leather, hard lines. I’m not as comfortable with that. Too sexy. I have to avoid looking. He sees it and smirks. Whatever. He knows how hot he is. It’s not my fault.

When the Koreans get their hands on him, they try to over-feminize him. It takes a certain kind of man – Cho-Ji, for example – to rock peach lip gloss, and Adam is just not that kind of man. I have to suppress snorts of laughter at those shoots, Adam glaring at me in mock resentment. Our working relationship keeps getting better, and I’m learning a ton about the industry.


	23. The London Pig

Most of Adam’s appearances go well, but I’m shocked at the gall of some of these media vultures. We’re in London the week after our trip to Busan, and one tacky, classless, hugely popular entertainment show personality is just a pig. I previously prepared Adam and warned him that it might be difficult to make nice. When we meet the host briefly before the taping, even I am shocked at how he has no problem putting his hands on me and making vulgar innuendos about how he’d like to check Adam’s “carry-on item” for contraband. 

It’s not my first time dealing with this kind of behavior on the job but I’m still dismayed. Because this is an important appearance for Adam, his first major TV appearance in Western Europe, I feel that I have to take it, at least until after the show. Adam doesn’t share that view. He physically separates the creep from me. He stands between us and gets right up in the host’s face. 

“Who are you to speak to this woman so disrespectfully? To lay your hands on her? You owe my friend an apology. Do it now.”

The creep is dumbfounded. He is used to everyone tolerating his grotesque behavior and he does not like being called out. Moreover, Adam is half a foot taller and thirty years younger. I would never have thought of Adam as physically intimidating, but in this moment, he is. 

“Sorry,” the creep says to me, “I assumed you had a sense of humor.” He stalks out.

Adam is scheduled for the end of the show. As we wait in the green room, he’s still fuming. He had planned one of his more aggressive songs for the working-class London audience. Tonight it’s even more aggressive than usual, glaring and snarly, and of course he blows the roof off the place. The audience is on its feet, minds blown by the performance and the vocals, the likes of which, of course, none of them have ever heard before. 

The interview is not friendly. The host tries to make fun of Adam’s English skills. He is particularly hostile about Adam’s public persona. I’m off stage, no headset, furious and unable to help. The jerk pushes Adam on the dichotomy between the “sexy beast” he is on stage and the “sweet boy” he is offstage. He is basically calling Adam a poser, a dickless goody-two-shoes, trying to provoke him. This is as close I have ever seen Adam come to losing his temper. His eyes flash and his cheeks flush. 

The interviewer thinks he has him, but Adam keeps his cool. “I have vices and flaws, like anyone else,” he says. “I get jealous. I’m possessive.” Pointed look. “I hold grudges.” The interviewer will not be seeing Adam on his show again.

When Adam comes off stage, I take him by his arms and repeat his own words to him: “The strong man is the one who has control over his own anger.” 

Adam relaxes a bit. “Yes. Thank you. Let’s get out of here.” 

We leave without saying goodbye or collecting the swag from the show.

In our car, he’s still glaring out the window. I try to lighten the mood. “You left out devious and brazen.” He looks confused. “From your list of vices.” It takes a moment, but then he gets it. He chuckles. 

“That’s right. Those are probably the worst ones.” He twinkles that same wicked smile he gave me when I first called him that. We laugh together, both remembering how he tricked me into coming to Omsk unprepared and how awkward our conversation afterward was. Such a contrast to how comfortable we are together now. 

It’s early morning back home, and Saraiya gets the video the of the performance and interview up almost immediately. Then someone’s cell phone footage of the green room encounter comes out. I’m hidden behind Adam, and I see the murder in his eyes that I couldn’t see at the time. Wow. No wonder the guy backed down so fast. British tabloids applaud the jerk finally getting his come-uppance from a handsome young foreigner who, by the way, sings like he’s not even human, check out his performance from the show, link to the video on Adam’s channel, not the pig’s. 

The comment sections are full of praise for Adam’s composure during the interview while openly drooling over threatening, aggressive Adam in the green room. His fans have never seen him like that before, any more than I have. Thousands of views and likes. It’s a big win. London loves him. His September concert will have many new fans in attendance.


	24. Friendship

May is quieter at work as my friends observe Ramadan. The whole country slows down a bit at work. I don’t see people in the office as much. Dilshad seems to have disappeared entirely. Adam is coming in a lot less. 

Most of my friends seem to have strong faith but they aren’t all that religiously observant and they don’t fast all that rigorously. Singers can’t work without water, after all. It’s more like strict daytime dieting. Although Sanzharistan, unlike many Muslim countries, doesn’t close its restaurants or change its work hours during Ramadan, we still clear all the food out of the office. Out of respect, I don’t eat while I’m at work. 

However, the country ramps up outside work with lots of celebrations and events, many of which my friends attend. I receive many invitations to evening meals at the homes of my friends, and I’m happy to partake. Some of the spreads are pretty lavish. During this time I feel like my relationships with all my peers on the team are really solidifying. I’m really starting to love Amelia, Saraiya, and Elena and their husbands. And Adam, of course.

By this point, at the end of April, we have fallen into a comfortable, efficient rhythm. It’s hard to believe it has only been two months. Well, two months, five countries, eight cities, not counting various towns in Sanzharistan. More if you go back to the Victorias. It feels like forever. We have developed that kind of telepathy that people who work together hand in glove have. I’ll be thirsty and he’ll pass me a bottle of water without me asking. He’ll want to go to the hotel gym and I’ll already be waiting at the entrance when he texts me.

Honestly, I’m amazed at how comfortable we have gotten, and how quickly. I discovered his artist’s gift for getting me to open up back when we were in Korea. Despite my intention to maintain a professional distance, I can’t seem to keep anything from him. He already knows essentially everything there is to know about me. At least he gives as good as he gets. He has pretty much laid out his whole life to me as well. Obviously, we don’t talk about anything inappropriate, but aside from that, it seems like we have covered a lifetime’s worth of territory in these couple of months. 

I have now peeled back his layers pretty thoroughly. I have never worked with a client closely enough to do that. The top layer, the only one most people see, is the one on stage: passionate, flirtatious, commanding, attention-seeking, uninhibited. That one still overwhelms me. Just beneath that, his public persona is reserved, almost shy. Hardworking; serene; kind; devoted to God, his family, his friends, and music. A huge contrast. I really respect that one. Peel back another layer and his private persona is loving, open, happy, boyish, and surprisingly funny. He is constantly teasing his friends, hugging his family, joking, smiling, humming, his fingers moving as if he is holding an instrument. That one is my favorite. Below that, yet another layer that he keeps hidden, where the darker things lie. I only get glimpses. A little bit of impatience, a little bit of a temper, possessiveness, a tendency to be controlling and stubborn. Whatever lies beneath that is something I don’t get to see. 

At some point it occurs to me that he is probably uncovering my own layers the same way. It makes me a little uncomfortable, and it comes out one evening on our way home from another appearance. I did a particularly good job tonight, and he’s thanking me for it. He throws me the line I gave him back at the Victorias. “Your secret flaws must be pretty terrible too.”

I have a had a lot of people give me the “oh, you’re so perfect” line, and it’s one of the few things that can actually set me off. I definitely have flaws, and I tell him so, aggressively.

“I would have to say I’m mostly flaws and they aren’t all that secret.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“Well, what do I have going for me? I’m pretty. It’s not like I did anything to earn it. I’m smart. I was born with that too. I did well in school. I didn’t spend my whole life studying because I’m some genius or have the world’s greatest work ethic. I just didn’t have any friends. I have learned how to act kind, considerate, and congenial, but I don’t actually know much about how to be a friend or have one.”

He’s listening intently. 

“I’m no good at relationships. I’m too independent, too unwilling to share my burdens, too willing to walk away. I say I want to have a family, but you have to be willing to truly love and trust someone for that. I loved my ex-boyfriend in a way, but I never really let him in. I don’t know that I’m even capable of that. As far as other humans are concerned, I basically suck.”

The driver has opened the door, but Adam’s not moving. He thinks for a minute and then answers.

“No. You are just afraid of getting hurt. I know what you have been through, what you have lost. I know what you want. I would give it all to you if I could. If you think that we aren’t friends, you’re crazy. You’re one of my best friends.”

I don’t know what to say. My mouth is an O of surprise.

“You’re right about one thing, though,” he says as he steps out of the SUV. “You are too independent.” He turns back and holds his hand out to me, totally unnecessarily. It’s a challenge. Fine. I take his hand and let him help me out. I won this round, his face tells me. 

Being friends with my gorgeous celebrity quasi-boss could be weird, but somehow it isn’t. Wherever we go, it just feels like we’re a team, partners. When we are working, my place is at his left shoulder, and I find myself there in airports, in conference rooms, backstage, on camera. 

It’s true even when we aren’t working. At home, we socialize with the group a lot more often than I expected, pretty much every evening that we are in town. When we all go out to eat, to the movies, to someone’s house after work, my place is now assured. 

Shortly after our return from London, Adam amuses me at a restaurant by physically picking up a chair and its occupant, moving him over so he could pull up another chair and take his spot next to me. He rolls his eyes at me like “what is that idiot thinking?” Not that he’s paying me any particular attention. We’ll talk some, or not. Whatever the group conversation is, we’re having that. There’s just an informal seating chart, and I have defaulted into this place of honor. 

Mercifully, that attraction that I was w¬¬orried about initially has not turned out to be an problem. He is still gorgeous (or beautiful, or cute, or smoking hot, depending on the stylist). Add to that his kindness, charisma, fame, and fortune, and he could be pretty irresistible. 

He knows it, of course. Sometimes, after a photo shoot or appearance when he’s looking especially good and he has that afterglow, he’ll see if he can get a rise out of me, teasing me by shooting me those seductive looks, testing out how effective his gazes are. I’m not averse to swatting him with a rolled-up itinerary at those moments. 

However, while I cannot deny being attracted to him, I have done a very good job not letting it get to me. I have no problem remembering that I am in no way an eligible partner for him even if he were free to date anyone. His utter and complete unattainability is probably one of the main reasons we have been able to get as close as we have. Not that he has shown any of that kind of interest anyway. Not even a wandering eye. I might as well not even have a body.

Elena is a particular comfort. Even though she’s newly wed to a handsome singer of her own, her absolute fangirl crush on Adam reminds me that it is normal to be attracted to somebody so undeniably attractive and also that it doesn’t have to be a problem. I know I’ll have to be a little vigilant, especially after his shows. As close as we are getting, I can imagine that being caught in his emotional blast radius now would be even more intense. 

His charms are also a lot easier to keep in perspective in the context of a real friendship. He’s a real person, not a fantasy. Seeing his flaws for myself – the possessiveness, the tendency to be controlling even when I’m off the clock – takes a lot of the fantasy out of him too. I think my risk of getting a serious crush on him has pretty much passed. 

But let’s be honest, if he were free to date, if I were an eligible partner, if I thought he was interested, my attraction to him could be a problem indeed. Fortunately, none of that is true, so it’s all good. I’m happy.

So is he. He is doing well during these months, which means everyone is doing well. When we are out, our friends remark at how nice it is that he is coming out with them for a change; how relaxed and happy he seems to be. As he promised, we do have a lot of fun. 

His words have struck a chord in me, and I find myself more willing to invest in my friendships with everyone else, even knowing that I won’t be here forever. The team and the broader group is full of gregarious people who love to laugh. One night we are mocking a terrible, embarrassing choice a superhero movie franchise has made for some new characters. I’m telling everyone what I would have said if I had been part of the focus group, deadpanning: “Yes, that’s a great idea. You should do that. Don’t change anything.” It’s not really that funny but everyone is howling. Rashid and Amelia’s kids don’t know what we are laughing about but they shriek anyway. It feels wonderful. 

I love feeling like I have carved out a place of my own. Everyone seems to approve of how integral I have become to the team, even if they are annoyed at the catalog of private jokes Adam and I have developed from spending so much time together, as well as the fact that he tends to address me in English in front of them pretty often, having a private conversation in a public space. I discourage that by answering in Russian. 

London was the last big trip abroad for a while. Adam and his team are back in the studio, working diligently on Ambassador, taking breaks in the conference room. Adam seems content but the rest of the musicians seem to be getting antsy to get back on tour. They all have side careers of their own, but the big show is under his tent. They want back into those arenas. They want to shoot his new music video in June, start rehearsing for the tour, and hit the road. 

Everything is so enjoyable at work that it’s easy to forget that this is a serious business. One Friday afternoon, Adam is sitting in the chair next to my desk, a fairly regular occurrence now, reveling in the fact that the very end of April has brought such nice weather. Winters here are long and cold. 

He’s upbeat, telling me about a restaurant nearby that has a walled outdoor patio with a little stage for live music. It is one of only a few places that Adam can go these days and have a normal experience of being outdoors and in public without having to deal with a constant onslaught of attention. Now that it’s warm, the team will probably start going there regularly. He wants to take me there today, after work.

Ismail comes in and sees his son slacking off. He frowns and says something to Adam in Sanzhar. I’ve still had little opportunity to pick any up since everyone speaks Russian around me, so I have no idea what’s up. But Adam looks chastened and follows his father into the conference room, where his father shuts the door. I can see them through the glass. I can even hear them a bit, which means raised voices. Uh oh. 

They are having what looks like an intense conversation, disagreeing strenuously about something. Ismail is clearly surprised that Adam is defying him. Adam defers to his father in all things other than musical choices, so I’m curious. This goes on for some time. Now Ismail looks compassionate but stern. Adam’s arms are crossed and he’s looking down, jaw clenched. Goodness. He nods. He shakes his head. Now it looks like they are negotiating. I realize I shouldn’t be spying on them, so I return to my work.

After ten minutes or so, they come out. They both walk right past me without even looking at me. My eyes follow them. Whatever just happened has upset Adam. Then he turns around and comes back. “Do you remember when Lukpan’s wedding was?” I have to think.

“October. The third, I think?”

He is doing mental math. “Six months. What’s the last tour date?”

I pull up the calendar. “Rome is Friday, October first. He’ll be home for his anniversary.” Lukpan just told us that Elena is pregnant, of course. She’ll have the baby not long after. Surely this is not what they were talking about.

Adam is shaking his head, his mouth a firm line. He’s definitely not happy about something. 

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

He looks at me for a long moment. “I cannot tell you.” 

I guess that’s fair. Family business, I suppose. I’m pretty sure there’s nothing work-related that I can’t know about. I look at him sympathetically. “Can I do anything?”

Still fuming, he says, “Yes. Don’t go anywhere.”

“I promised Dilshad I’d stay through the end of the tour. I’m not going to abandon you before then.”

“Pfft.” Whatever this is, he’s salty about it.

“Hang in there,” I say.

“That’s not going to be easy.” He glowers out. I guess I’ll see that restaurant another time.

Saraiya and I have gotten a lot closer. Her family is very traditional, much like Adam’s. They live with Mohammed’s family just like Adam lives with his. The parents are beside themselves with excitement about their first grandchild being on the way. Mohammed is a real estate agent by day, and a mullah by night, with a small flock of spiritual students. When he was finally ready to marry at the advanced age of 32, he went and found himself a young Sanzhar beauty of 20 years old and married her ten weeks later. Adam will most likely do the exact same thing.

Where Amelia is gregarious, loud, and imposing, Saraiya is smart, sweet, and supportive. She has been a pleasure to work with, taking great pains to make sure I’m comfortable and learning everything. Despite my title as International Media Liaison, she will have to teach me everything about social media. I’ll be covering a lot of her job when she has the baby. I’m OK on Instagram, but I know nothing about Facebook, VK, or Weibo. Fortunately, it will be temporary. Mohammed’s family will take a lot of the responsibility of child care off her shoulders. She does expect to return to work. 

I have confided in her my secret Instagram conversation with Cho-Ji. She loves N-POWER and is beyond thrilled to have some vicarious excitement. She has given me exclusive responsibility for all Instagram communications involving him. 

Saraiya and I (to a much lesser extent) create the illusion of Adam interacting with his social media pretty much every day. He does post his own content every few days, but he leaves its ongoing maintenance 75% to us. He’s way too busy to handle feeding that machine by himself. Our job is to keep it rolling and alert him when there are posts that he’ll want to reply to himself, actual friends, other celebrities, people he follows. So I’m pretty much undisturbed in my occasional interactions with Cho-Ji.

One of these happens one night at Saraiya and Mohammed’s house. They are hosting their one-year anniversary dinner with his extended family and students, as well as our entire social group. There will be about 45 of us there. 

They asked me to bring an American dish. I’m not great at cooking for myself, but I’m a decent baker. I consider making a New York cheesecake, but what passes for cream cheese here isn’t the same thing. The only other thing I can think of that is truly American is a zucchini cake my grandmother used to make. 

I have to go early and make the cake at their house. I don’t have any equipment at my place. Evenings out with our friends are usually downtown near the studio and my apartment, so I normally walk or take the bus. Mohammed’s family’s house, however, is nearly an hour away, on the edge of town, so tonight Adam drives me. We have to stop for groceries. This is a domestic errand that he is not accustomed to. He is mystified in the produce section.

“Why are you buying squash?”

“It’s for the cake.”

“You put squash in your cake?” He’s repulsed, teasing me.

“Haven’t you ever heard of pumpkin pie?”

“Ugh! Squash pie?”

“If I’m still here, I’ll make you one in November.”

“No thank you, that’s disgusting.”

“It’s better than a boiled goat head.” I’m teasing back.

“I cannot agree.”

“Go find us some strawberries. Kiwi if they have it.”

As soon as he walks away, I realize that pretty much every person in the vicinity is watching us surreptitiously. I’ve gotten so used to Adam that I forgot how extraordinary my ordinary interaction with the country’s most famous celebrity would look to outsiders.

I bag my squash and catch his eye over by the fruit. He’s seen them too. He grabs what we need and we scram out of there fast, without incident.

In his SUV I feel like we escaped a close call. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I forgot.”

He shakes his head as he turns on the engine. “I wasn’t thinking.”

Later, Saraiya’s kitchen is a zoo. All the women are cooking, plating dishes, shooing away children and men, getting ready for the feast. I have my own little spot to prepare my cake. Adam is watching dubiously from the kitchen island as two cups of shredded zucchini go into otherwise perfectly good cake batter. He shakes his head and scrolls through his phone.

“Oh wow!” he exclaims. “Song Cho-Ji posted on my Instagram!”

Saraiya and I both whip around. “What?!” 

I sprint around the island and snatch his phone out of his hands. “Hey!” he objects.

Saraiya and I huddle over it. “Live on Love” has been getting enough early traction that we’re going to shoot a real music video for it. Earlier in the day Saraiya posted a short clip of him recording the song in the studio, with the caption “Scouting locations for video.”

Cho-Ji has replied: “Come to Seoul. We have everything. It’s been too long. #horsebackriding #nightlife #parks #dining #dancing #cutie #liveonlove.” Ahhhh! It’s a message to me. Holy cow. It sounds like he’s suggesting he’d take me out if we go there. Surely not, but still. It’s also a boost for the song.N-POWER’s legions of fans will be checking it out. That is a big deal for Adam.

Saraiya and I gasp and giggle like schoolgirls. “Oh my God! How do we answer?” He probably has 100 women he flirts with like this but I still love it.

Adam is annoyed at what he assumes is just us fangirling over Cho-Ji. “Give me that!” He takes his phone back. “You girls are crazy.”

He replies to Cho-Ji himself. “Thanks, brother, I’ll mention it to my director. Seoul is beautiful.” Cho-Ji will know it’s not from me. I pout inwardly. He wanders off while I finish my cake.

I don’t spend tonight in my usual place at Adam’s shoulder. Even though we technically came to this party together, something about knowing we are leaving together has made me feel like I don’t need to take up any of his time while we’re here. Plenty of other people want his attention, and I have lots of people I want to talk to. We will catch up on anything interesting on the way home. 

We just check in with an occasional glance, everything’s good, we’re both fine, back to whatever we were doing. It’s such a comforting feeling.

I have a wonderful time hanging out with everyone, most especially Lukpan and Elena. Elena, it turns out, was childhood friends with Saraiya. They are both as sweet as can be. Through Lukpan, Elena was responsible for Saraiya getting her job with Dilshad, just as Amelia was responsible for me getting mine. That’s how it works here. That also means that what Saraiya knows, Elena knows. 

Sure enough, after dinner, my Cho-Ji chickens come home to roost. Adam, Lukpan in tow, finds me with Saraiya and addresses me incredulously.

“Do you have something going on with Song Cho-Ji? Was that message for you?”

I give Saraiya an accusatory look. “It wasn’t me!” she exclaims.

“Lukpan told me. Is it true?”

I was not ready for this confrontation and have no explanation prepared. “I’m going to take a page out of your book and refuse to answer personal questions.”

“Oh no you don’t. My friends all know what’s going on in my personal life.”

“Do we, though?” Lukpan asks.

I gesture to Lukpan. “There you go. I’m exercising my right to remain silent.”

“I can’t believe this. The rumors about you two are true?”

I feel myself getting hot. I’m sure I’m blushing. Rumors about you two sounds like a lot more than it should. “How do you know about that?”

“Do you think that I live under a rock?”

“Yes, a little.”

“Well I don’t. I saw what people were saying about you after the Expo. And don’t forget I saw him fondling you in person. So? What is going on?”

I laugh and evade. “Seriously, what could I possibly have going on with him? He’s a million miles away and a million leagues out of my league. We’ve just met a few times and ... communicated a few times.”

“You talked with him five seconds at the Victorias and five minutes at the Expo. How did this happen?”

“Well. We met before that. I told you I worked the N-POWER summit in Rome.” 

“You already knew each other at the Victorias?” 

“I’d say that’s an overstatement.”

Adam is shaking his head indignantly, but he doesn’t seem to actually be mad. He seems titillated if anything. “I forbid you to use my Instagram to talk to Cho-Ji. Don’t make me block him.”

“Fine. I have nothing further to say to you.” I put my nose up in the air imperiously, suppressing my laughter. I address Lukpan. “I do have something to say to your lovely wife, however.”

I head off and find Elena. Saraiya follows me. As I retreat, Adam shouts after me, “And we’re not shooting that video in Seoul, either!”

“Hey, girl, you just got me busted for Instagramming with Cho-Ji!”

She looks horrified. “Lukpan! Dang it!”

“It’s OK. I refused to answer any questions. But Adam has banned me from doing it any more. I guess my fun is over!”

“I don’t know why you’re bothering with Cho-Ji anyway when you have Adam right here.”

“What? That’s totally different. I don’t ‘have’ Adam. Plus, you’ve seen Cho-Ji, right?” I raise an significant eyebrow.

“You’ve seen Adam, haven’t you?” She retorts. Elena is so cute. She doesn’t even bother trying to hide her crush. Poor Lukpan. “Are you sure it’s totally different? You know Adam’s entire fandom is jealous of you.”

“That can’t be true. That’s ridiculous.”

“Well...” Saraiya seems to think that’s not so ridiculous.

“Adam is like my gay BFF. Totally different.” Of course I’m really using the Russian acronym.

They both look shocked at that. “Adam is not gay!” Elena exclaims. Sanzharistan is still a bit backwards when it comes to such things.

“What’s a BFF?” asks Saraiya.

“BFF means best friend forever. You know, a woman can be close friends with a gay man because there’s no possibility of anything ever happening. There’s, like, a dozen reasons why nothing could ever happen between me and Adam. So we can be friends without worrying about it.”

Elena is intrigued. “So you aren’t attracted to him? If you like Cho-Ji you must not be against Asians like most Americans. Or Eurasians.”

“Well, sure. I just put that aside, like we all do.”

“You’re a stronger woman than I would be. If I were beside him every day, I wouldn’t be able to think straight. I’d get pregnant just from sitting next to him. Pregnant on top of already being pregnant.”

Saraiya and I both laugh.

“Elena, you’re hilarious! OK, I admit I was worried about it at first. But it’s not that hard. I spend so much time with him I’ve kind of gotten used to it. Plus, watching him get made up and doused in hairspray every couple of days takes a lot of the magic out of the results.”

Elena is looking at him longingly across the room, where he is taking pictures with a group of Mohammed’s students. “Forget all that. He’s handsomest when he’s just like he is tonight.”

We all look. She’s right. He’s all natural and dressed casually but nicely. He’s in soft fabrics and colors and looks very touchable. Now that I’m looking, I realize he put some effort into it. He does look especially handsome. Thanks for nothing, Elena. 

He senses us and looks over. He’s used to being stared at, but the three of us scrutinizing him is unquestionably amusing. He catches my eye and the slightest twitch crosses his face that only I recognize as a hidden laugh. I look down, biting my cheeks so I don’t expose him. 

“Well, it doesn’t matter. He’s completely unattainable.”

Saraiya asks, “Do you really think so?”

“Not to the beautiful young things of your country, but to me? Absolutely. And even if he weren’t, I am happy to say that we are mutually disinterested.”

Saraiya looks surprisingly unconvinced. “If you say so,” she says. 

“What, you too? You of all people should know better than anyone that I’m obsessed with Cho-Ji.”

“Yes, of course. You are. Now I have to go be a host.”

Saraiya moves on and Elena and I mingle. The people I’m meeting are interesting and very nice. A couple of nice men say hello, but as usual, they don’t come back. I try to distract Elena from staring at Adam while he keeps posing for photos with the guests. Most have never met him. They don’t lay it on very thick, but everyone wants a few minutes with him, a photo, to compliment him. He accommodates them all, of course, thanking everyone so graciously. It takes up most of his evening. 

At the end of the night he makes his way back to me. He eyes what is left of my cake and sighs in resignation.

“You really don’t have to try it.”

“Of course I am trying it.”

He sticks a fork in the remains, picks up a bite, and looks at it like a condemned man. He gingerly puts it in his mouth and chews. 

“OK. This is very good.”

“You don’t have to say that.”

“I mean it.” He takes another bite. “I love it. I want it for my birthday. Will you make it?”

“Absolutely!” I’m unjustifiably delighted that he likes it.

When we leave, it’s very late for me, around two in the morning. On the drive home, I feel really happy and relaxed. He puts on some music, a soft, gentle voice singing in Sanzhar, almost like a lullaby. After several seconds I realize that it’s him. I haven’t heard anything like this in his repertoire. 

“What is this?” I ask. 

He just smiles. “Special for my friends.”

I half wake up to the sound of Adam opening my door. It’s almost three a.m. now. We are in front of my building. I fumble my seat belt off and step unsteadily onto the running board. “Why is this stupid truck so high?” I grumble. Adam puts his hands on my waist and helps me hop down. I fail and fall into him, banging my face into his chest, awkwardly. “Ow!”

He’s imperiously looking down at me. “I learned very much about you tonight,” he says. He’s using English.

“What?” I reply, rubbing my nose. I’m confused.

“You are a good baker, you are having an affair with Song Cho-Ji, and I am your gay best friend.” Elena, Jesus! Can’t you keep your mouth shut for one minute? But it’s OK, he’s in a good mood and only pretending to take offense.

I laugh. “Pretty much.” 

“Well, you can walk yourself to your door.”

“See you Monday at the airport.”

“Maybe I will fire you before then.”

“Pfft.” I stumble toward my building then turn around at the big glass doors. He’s still standing by the truck, making sure I get in. “Hey, are you awake enough to drive home?”

“I’m fine. It’s not far. Why, are you going to invite your best friend up to your apartment?” Coming from anyone else I’d think that was a proposition. Adam would never do that, though. 

I laugh. “No, I was going to tell you to sleep in your big stupid truck. Goodnight.”

“See you Monday.”


	25. Saraiya's Anniversary

May is quieter at work as my friends observe Ramadan. The whole country slows down a bit at work. I don’t see people in the office as much. Dilshad seems to have disappeared entirely. Adam is coming in a lot less. 

Most of my friends seem to have strong faith but they aren’t all that religiously observant and they don’t fast all that rigorously. Singers can’t work without water, after all. It’s more like strict daytime dieting. Although Sanzharistan, unlike many Muslim countries, doesn’t close its restaurants or change its work hours during Ramadan, we still clear all the food out of the office. Out of respect, I don’t eat while I’m at work. 

However, the country ramps up outside work with lots of celebrations and events, many of which my friends attend. I receive many invitations to evening meals at the homes of my friends, and I’m happy to partake. Some of the spreads are pretty lavish. During this time I feel like my relationships with all my peers on the team are really solidifying. I’m really starting to love Amelia, Saraiya, and Elena and their husbands. And Adam, of course.

Saraiya and I have gotten a lot closer. Her family is very traditional, much like Adam’s. They live with Mohammed’s family just like Adam lives with his. The parents are beside themselves with excitement about their first grandchild being on the way. Mohammed is a real estate agent by day, and a mullah by night, with a small flock of spiritual students. When he was finally ready to marry at the advanced age of 32, he went and found himself a young Sanzhar beauty of 20 years old and married her ten weeks later. Adam will most likely do the exact same thing.

Where Amelia is gregarious, loud, and imposing, Saraiya is smart, sweet, and supportive. She has been a pleasure to work with, taking great pains to make sure I’m comfortable and learning everything. Despite my title as International Media Liaison, she will have to teach me everything about social media. I’ll be covering a lot of her job when she has the baby. I’m OK on Instagram, but I know nothing about Facebook, VK, or Weibo. Fortunately, it will be temporary. Mohammed’s family will take a lot of the responsibility of child care off her shoulders. She does expect to return to work. 

I have confided in her my secret Instagram conversation with Cho-Ji. She loves N-POWER and is beyond thrilled to have some vicarious excitement. She has given me exclusive responsibility for all Instagram communications involving him. 

Saraiya and I (to a much lesser extent) create the illusion of Adam interacting with his social media pretty much every day. He does post his own content every few days, but he leaves its ongoing maintenance 75% to us. He’s way too busy to handle feeding that machine by himself. Our job is to keep it rolling and alert him when there are posts that he’ll want to reply to himself, actual friends, other celebrities, people he follows. So I’m pretty much undisturbed in my occasional interactions with Cho-Ji.

One of these happens one night at Saraiya and Mohammed’s house. They are hosting their one-year anniversary dinner with his extended family and students, as well as our entire social group. There will be about 45 of us there. 

They asked me to bring an American dish. I’m not great at cooking for myself, but I’m a decent baker. I consider making a New York cheesecake, but what passes for cream cheese here isn’t the same thing. The only other thing I can think of that is truly American is a zucchini cake my grandmother used to make. 

I have to go early and make the cake at their house. I don’t have any equipment at my place. Evenings out with our friends are usually downtown near the studio and my apartment, so I normally walk or take the bus. Mohammed’s family’s house, however, is nearly an hour away, on the edge of town, so tonight Adam drives me. We have to stop for groceries. This is a domestic errand that he is not accustomed to. He is mystified in the produce section.

“Why are you buying squash?”

“It’s for the cake.”

“You put squash in your cake?” He’s repulsed, teasing me.

“Haven’t you ever heard of pumpkin pie?”

“Ugh! Squash pie?”

“If I’m still here, I’ll make you one in November.”

“No thank you, that’s disgusting.”

“It’s better than a boiled goat head.” I’m teasing back.

“I cannot agree.”

“Go find us some strawberries. Kiwi if they have it.”

As soon as he walks away, I realize that pretty much every person in the vicinity is watching us surreptitiously. I’ve gotten so used to Adam that I forgot how extraordinary my ordinary interaction with the country’s most famous celebrity would look to outsiders.

I bag my squash and catch his eye over by the fruit. He’s seen them too. He grabs what we need and we scram out of there fast, without incident.

In his SUV I feel like we escaped a close call. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I forgot.”

He shakes his head as he turns on the engine. “I wasn’t thinking.”

Later, Saraiya’s kitchen is a zoo. All the women are cooking, plating dishes, shooing away children and men, getting ready for the feast. I have my own little spot to prepare my cake. Adam is watching dubiously from the kitchen island as two cups of shredded zucchini go into otherwise perfectly good cake batter. He shakes his head and scrolls through his phone.

“Oh wow!” he exclaims. “Song Cho-Ji posted on my Instagram!”

Saraiya and I both whip around. “What?!” 

I sprint around the island and snatch his phone out of his hands. “Hey!” he objects.

Saraiya and I huddle over it. “Live on Love” has been getting enough early traction that we’re going to shoot a real music video for it. Earlier in the day Saraiya posted a short clip of him recording the song in the studio, with the caption “Scouting locations for video.”

Cho-Ji has replied: “Come to Seoul. We have everything. It’s been too long. #horsebackriding #nightlife #parks #dining #dancing #cutie #liveonlove.” Ahhhh! It’s a message to me. Holy cow. It sounds like he’s suggesting he’d take me out if we go there. Surely not, but still. It’s also a boost for the song.N-POWER’s legions of fans will be checking it out. That is a big deal for Adam.

Saraiya and I gasp and giggle like schoolgirls. “Oh my God! How do we answer?” He probably has 100 women he flirts with like this but I still love it.

Adam is annoyed at what he assumes is just us fangirling over Cho-Ji. “Give me that!” He takes his phone back. “You girls are crazy.”

He replies to Cho-Ji himself. “Thanks, brother, I’ll mention it to my director. Seoul is beautiful.” Cho-Ji will know it’s not from me. I pout inwardly. He wanders off while I finish my cake.

I don’t spend tonight in my usual place at Adam’s shoulder. Even though we technically came to this party together, something about knowing we are leaving together has made me feel like I don’t need to take up any of his time while we’re here. Plenty of other people want his attention, and I have lots of people I want to talk to. We will catch up on anything interesting on the way home. 

We just check in with an occasional glance, everything’s good, we’re both fine, back to whatever we were doing. It’s such a comforting feeling.

I have a wonderful time hanging out with everyone, most especially Lukpan and Elena. Elena, it turns out, was childhood friends with Saraiya. They are both as sweet as can be. Through Lukpan, Elena was responsible for Saraiya getting her job with Dilshad, just as Amelia was responsible for me getting mine. That’s how it works here. That also means that what Saraiya knows, Elena knows. 

Sure enough, after dinner, my Cho-Ji chickens come home to roost. Adam, Lukpan in tow, finds me with Saraiya and addresses me incredulously.

“Do you have something going on with Song Cho-Ji? Was that message for you?”

I give Saraiya an accusatory look. “It wasn’t me!” she exclaims.

“Lukpan told me. Is it true?”

I was not ready for this confrontation and have no explanation prepared. “I’m going to take a page out of your book and refuse to answer personal questions.”

“Oh no you don’t. My friends all know what’s going on in my personal life.”

“Do we, though?” Lukpan asks.

I gesture to Lukpan. “There you go. I’m exercising my right to remain silent.”

“I can’t believe this. The rumors about you two are true?”

I feel myself getting hot. I’m sure I’m blushing. Rumors about you two sounds like a lot more than it should. “How do you know about that?”

“Do you think that I live under a rock?”

“Yes, a little.”

“Well I don’t. I saw what people were saying about you after the Expo. And don’t forget I saw him fondling you in person. So? What is going on?”

I laugh and evade. “Seriously, what could I possibly have going on with him? He’s a million miles away and a million leagues out of my league. We’ve just met a few times and ... communicated a few times.”

“You talked with him five seconds at the Victorias and five minutes at the Expo. How did this happen?”

“Well. We met before that. I told you I worked the N-POWER summit in Rome.” 

“You already knew each other at the Victorias?” 

“I’d say that’s an overstatement.”

Adam is shaking his head indignantly, but he doesn’t seem to actually be mad. He seems titillated if anything. “I forbid you to use my Instagram to talk to Cho-Ji. Don’t make me block him.”

“Fine. I have nothing further to say to you.” I put my nose up in the air imperiously, suppressing my laughter. I address Lukpan. “I do have something to say to your lovely wife, however.”

I head off and find Elena. Saraiya follows me. As I retreat, Adam shouts after me, “And we’re not shooting that video in Seoul, either!”

“Hey, girl, you just got me busted for Instagramming with Cho-Ji!”

She looks horrified. “Lukpan! Dang it!”

“It’s OK. I refused to answer any questions. But Adam has banned me from doing it any more. I guess my fun is over!”

“I don’t know why you’re bothering with Cho-Ji anyway when you have Adam right here.”

“What? That’s totally different. I don’t ‘have’ Adam. Plus, you’ve seen Cho-Ji, right?” I raise an significant eyebrow.

“You’ve seen Adam, haven’t you?” She retorts. Elena is so cute. She doesn’t even bother trying to hide her crush. Poor Lukpan. “Are you sure it’s totally different? You know Adam’s entire fandom is jealous of you.”

“That can’t be true. That’s ridiculous.”

“Well...” Saraiya seems to think that’s not so ridiculous.

“Adam is like my gay BFF. Totally different.” Of course I’m really using the Russian acronym.

They both look shocked at that. “Adam is not gay!” Elena exclaims. Sanzharistan is still a bit backwards when it comes to such things.

“What’s a BFF?” asks Saraiya.

“BFF means best friend forever. You know, a woman can be close friends with a gay man because there’s no possibility of anything ever happening. There’s, like, a dozen reasons why nothing could ever happen between me and Adam. So we can be friends without worrying about it.”

Elena is intrigued. “So you aren’t attracted to him? If you like Cho-Ji you must not be against Asians like most Americans. Or Eurasians.”

“Well, sure. I just put that aside, like we all do.”

“You’re a stronger woman than I would be. If I were beside him every day, I wouldn’t be able to think straight. I’d get pregnant just from sitting next to him. Pregnant on top of already being pregnant.”

Saraiya and I both laugh.

“Elena, you’re hilarious! OK, I admit I was worried about it at first. But it’s not that hard. I spend so much time with him I’ve kind of gotten used to it. Plus, watching him get made up and doused in hairspray every couple of days takes a lot of the magic out of the results.”

Elena is looking at him longingly across the room, where he is taking pictures with a group of Mohammed’s students. “Forget all that. He’s handsomest when he’s just like he is tonight.”

We all look. She’s right. He’s all natural and dressed casually but nicely. He’s in soft fabrics and colors and looks very touchable. Now that I’m looking, I realize he put some effort into it. He does look especially handsome. Thanks for nothing, Elena. 

He senses us and looks over. He’s used to being stared at, but the three of us scrutinizing him is unquestionably amusing. He catches my eye and the slightest twitch crosses his face that only I recognize as a hidden laugh. I look down, biting my cheeks so I don’t expose him. 

“Well, it doesn’t matter. He’s completely unattainable.”

Saraiya asks, “Do you really think so?”

“Not to the beautiful young things of your country, but to me? Absolutely. And even if he weren’t, I am happy to say that we are mutually disinterested.”

Saraiya looks surprisingly unconvinced. “If you say so,” she says. 

“What, you too? You of all people should know better than anyone that I’m obsessed with Cho-Ji.”

“Yes, of course. You are. Now I have to go be a host.”

Saraiya moves on and Elena and I mingle. The people I’m meeting are interesting and very nice. A couple of nice men say hello, but as usual, they don’t come back. I try to distract Elena from staring at Adam while he keeps posing for photos with the guests. Most have never met him. They don’t lay it on very thick, but everyone wants a few minutes with him, a photo, to compliment him. He accommodates them all, of course, thanking everyone so graciously. It takes up most of his evening. 

At the end of the night he makes his way back to me. He eyes what is left of my cake and sighs in resignation.

“You really don’t have to try it.”

“Of course I am trying it.”

He sticks a fork in the remains, picks up a bite, and looks at it like a condemned man. He gingerly puts it in his mouth and chews. 

“OK. This is very good.”

“You don’t have to say that.”

“I mean it.” He takes another bite. “I love it. I want it for my birthday. Will you make it?”

“Absolutely!” I’m unjustifiably delighted that he likes it.

When we leave, it’s very late for me, around two in the morning. On the drive home, I feel really happy and relaxed. He puts on some music, a soft, gentle voice singing in Sanzhar, almost like a lullaby. After several seconds I realize that it’s him. I haven’t heard anything like this in his repertoire. 

“What is this?” I ask. 

He just smiles. “Special for my friends.”

I half wake up to the sound of Adam opening my door. It’s almost three a.m. now. We are in front of my building. I fumble my seat belt off and step unsteadily onto the running board. “Why is this stupid truck so high?” I grumble. Adam puts his hands on my waist and helps me hop down. I fail and fall into him, banging my face into his chest, awkwardly. “Ow!”

He’s imperiously looking down at me. “I learned very much about you tonight,” he says. He’s using English.

“What?” I reply, rubbing my nose. I’m confused.

“You are a good baker, you are having an affair with Song Cho-Ji, and I am your gay best friend.” Elena, Jesus! Can’t you keep your mouth shut for one minute? But it’s OK, he’s in a good mood and only pretending to take offense.

I laugh. “Pretty much.” 

“Well, you can walk yourself to your door.”

“See you Monday at the airport.”

“Maybe I will fire you before then.”

“Pfft.” I stumble toward my building then turn around at the big glass doors. He’s still standing by the truck, making sure I get in. “Hey, are you awake enough to drive home?”

“I’m fine. It’s not far. Why, are you going to invite your best friend up to your apartment?” Coming from anyone else I’d think that was a proposition. Adam would never do that, though. 

I laugh. “No, I was going to tell you to sleep in your big stupid truck. Goodnight.”

“See you Monday.”


	26. The Planets

I couldn’t be happier with my work and social lives among the moons and lesser planets. Happily, I even have the opportunity to make some progress with the giant planets: Adam’s parents and his musical mentor, Peter Sokolov. We have traveled to St. Petersburg for Adam and Peter to appear together on a late show segment. His parents have come along for reasons of their own. I’m not really needed in Russia, but me coming on all these things is just the norm now, so I do. I help him out with what I can and keep myself busy with my own work while Adam and Peter are taping. Afterward, we all return to the hotel, where Ismail and Fatima are waiting at the restaurant entrance, ready to break their fast.

This is the very innermost circle, the ones at his table at the wedding on the night we met. My friendship and working relationship with Adam makes me a planet of sorts because there’s nobody between us, but I am not like these people. I am there to support him, smooth his way in these foreign lands, and return him to them unharmed. As they hug and greet each other, I’m satisfied that Adam is safely in the arms of his loved ones, and I slip off to the elevators to return to my room. After a moment of waiting, I feel his hand clasp my wrist, turning me around. He’s looking at me quizzically. He speaks English.

“Why do you do this?”

“Do what?”

“Always leaving. You don’t say goodbye. Always disappearing like this.”

“Am I being rude? I don’t mean to. Just, once you are with your people it seems like I should go.”

He shakes his head like I’m an idiot.

“You are my people. Come eat with us.” He steers me back to the dining room.

His parents are cordial to me but not exactly warm. Tonight I feel like an interloper, like I did in the van in Seoul. Fortunately, my diplomatic training kicks in again and I manage to find the right things to talk about with everyone at the table. I learn quite a bit more about them, their careers and activities and traditions. 

I tell them more about my life, which is completely alien to them and keeps the conversation going for a good while. They pay closer attention than I expect them to, especially Fatima, with whom I have spent less time. They seem to care what I have to say. My career fascinates them. I tell them how it came from my parents, and what happened to them. People are always horrified, but Adam’s family reacts like he did; like not having a family is the absolute worst thing that could ever happen to anyone. By the end of dinner I think they have come to appreciate my mind and sense of humor. I feel like I have earned their respect. 

Adam observes quietly, allowing me to carry my own weight with the inner circle. It feels like a vote of confidence. 

When we get up, I am asking Fatima about her gorgeous jewelry when I capture an another odd moment between Adam and his father. Ismail seems to be looking at Adam sympathetically, with a hand on his shoulder. Adam looks resigned and, honestly, resentful. I’ve never seen that on him before. It reminds me of the conference room conversation. Family matters always intrigue me, no matter whose family, plus something is upsetting my friend. I am dying to know what that’s about, but since he said he can’t tell me, he won’t. So frustrating! 

After this night, I no longer feel like I have to sneak away when the planets are orbiting my star directly. I can’t help looking to Adam for reassurance before I join them, but he always gives it. I hadn’t realized until then that my inhibition around the innermost circle was the last thing keeping me from feeling 100% like a part of the team. Now I really do feel like that, even though I have only been working with them for around three months. Four months, I guess, if I count from Korea.


	27. All's Well Except My Love Life

Back home, the fact is, I am happier than I have ever been. I have never had a job like this or a social life like this, and the fact that they are so intertwined is wonderful. It feels like I am working from home in a group house with all my best friends, only at the end of the day I can leave to the peace and quiet of my own apartment. After all these years of being mostly alone, I still need that. This group is feeling like the family I haven’t had since I was a child. I love them all.

And, three months in, the work itself is going so well. When we work and we are in the zone, I feel almost like an extension of Adam’s own mind. I know exactly what to say, and how, to give him what he needs to deal with whatever or whoever he is facing. Even when I can’t see his face, I can read the slightest changes in his body language; I know when he’s comfortable and when he needs support. He’s not there to support me, but he can read me the same way.

He says that when I’m interpreting for him through his earpiece, he sometimes forgets he’s hearing me and feels like he’s understanding the foreign language for himself. When I give him hints and he speaks, sometimes it’s like he says my own unarticulated thoughts. When this is going on there are times that it’s like we don’t exist as separate people at all. Sometimes when we are traveling and we part at the end of a particularly intense day, I have the odd sensation that being connected through my headset is baseline and being disconnected is the abnormal state. 

I have never had this kind of relationship before. When I took this job I knew, obviously, that I would be working closely with Adam, but I never would have expected that he would become so central to both my professional and personal life. It seems so unlikely, but I truly get the sense that I’m closer to him now than anyone but his oldest friends. Probably closer than Amelia is, even. I’m still not technically a planet but I can imagine graduating to one. I’m Dilshad’s in the office, but when I am traveling with Adam, there is no-one between us. 

It could be awkward to be so close to a single man my age, particularly one with all his attributes, but it isn’t. He doesn’t even hint at crossing any lines, gives absolutely no sign that he has anything improper on his mind. In fact, none of the men ever make me feel uncomfortable in the slightest. Not one of them ever makes me worry for even an instant about anything inappropriate. 

It frees me to stop being so drab. I’m not dressing up like the seemingly endless parade of stunning Sanzhar beauties who his parents are obviously rotating through the office to audition for the role of daughter-in-law, but I start to feel like I can relax a bit without anything bad happening. I start to dress at work like I do socially, jeans and t-shirts or blouses. Ordinary clothes, but I do fill them out pretty spectacularly, if I do say so myself. 

And yet all the guys seem immune. None of them check me out, ever. Not the droolworthy male dancers. Not the band members. Not even Vanya the playboy. No hint that anyone might see me as a woman. They are either innately respectful, closeted, happily married, trained not to look, or a combination of the above. Or maybe Adam instructed all of them to ignore my womanly qualities when I made that a condition of coming to Korea. 

Or, most likely, they are so used to being around beautiful women that they no longer notice. The future daughters-in-law are truly the cream of the crop. One is literally Miss Sanzharistan. Fatima brings them around and Adam dutifully disappears to have a chat or some tea with them while the rest of us snicker about it. “That one was pretty,” someone says. “They’re all pretty,” he replies. His friends needle him with questions that he answers only with monosyllabic grunts. This whole scenario is so bizarre to me. I ask him if he’s essentially holding wife auditions. “More or less,” he sighs. I can’t help laughing. It’s unclear whether any of them get a callback.

In addition to the future daughters-in-law, there is no shortage of extremely desirable women on our team. While I am still trying to keep something of a low profile, many of these women are definitely trying to get attention, especially from Adam. Amusingly, while all the women in our close group are very good about not crossing any emotional lines, the same can’t quite be said for the women who are one step removed. 

Adam never acknowledges it in any way, but it is pretty amusing to see them fail to keep their composure, trying to look cool. One of his dancers in particular comes on to him pretty hard when she’s around. She has a stunning face and an incredible dancer’s body and an age 18-and-over restricted Instagram account to go with it. I don’t know whether he actually looks at it, but he does follow it. I’ve looked. It leaves little to the imagination. It annoys me unjustifiably and I have to resist the urge to unfollow her when I’m posting to his account. I almost feel bad for her, though. As friendly as he is, his disinterest could not be more obvious. An account like that is not going to attract a man like him. Handshake zone for her.

I appreciate not being ogled at work, but it reminds me that I have absolutely no love life. Adam is apparently not getting any by choice, but my lack of companionship is definitely not by choice. I’m almost three years into my drought and I’ve really had enough. In addition to nobody in our circle having any interest in me, Robert from the embassy seems to have disappeared. I’m pretty sure I’m not going to end up marrying Cho-Ji, despite the many late nights he, I, and my tablet have spent in bed together. I am a healthy and robust 25-year-old woman. I have needs. It is time for me to get serious about finding a man to date.

It’s particularly frustrating because summer has brought with it an influx of new people joining us at some of our gatherings and I really would think that somebody would show some interest. Some of the men who show up from time to time are eligible and quite attractive. But after an initial appraisal, which always seems positive enough, they seem to look right through me. 

In the US, I’d think maybe they were just playing it cool, but not here. Gender roles in this culture are quite traditional. Women aren’t supposed to make the first move, ever. That’s the man’s job. For a man to be timid or tentative in romance is considered a disgrace. If a man is interested, he says so. If she accepts his interest, they’ll get to know each other over a few months, maybe do a little physical exploring depending on exactly how traditional they are, and if they are a match, they get married without much delay. I’m not looking to get married, but I would really like to spend some time on those first two steps.

I raise this one night when about a dozen of us are at dinner at the patio restaurant Adam mentioned previously, which has indeed become our go-to place. It has been a festive evening, more fun and laughter even than usual. I’m feeling warm and uninhibited.

“Alright friends, I need your help. Can anyone explain to me why not a single man has shown any interest in me since I got here?” 

They look at me curiously.

“Am I hideous by Sanzhar standards? Is it my hair? Should I dye it black?”

Laughter.

“Seriously, one of you has got to know somebody who would take a girl like me to dinner. I am not above a blind date. I haven’t even kissed a guy in two years. This is getting ridiculous.” I turn to Lukpan. “What about your friend from last week? Amir? He was cute.”

An awkward silence descends on the table. Glances are exchanged. What did I say? Is he gay? Married?

“Amelia?”

“You already know everyone I know.”

I look at Saraiya and Mohammed. “What about you two? Any eligible students?”

“Nope.”

Everyone else seems to have become deeply interested in anything that doesn’t involve looking in my direction. This is really awkward. I think I stepped on their cultural toes. Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned kissing.

Thankfully, Rashid speaks up. “I have a very nice cousin. I think you’d like him.”

“Who?” Adam and I demand in unison. I give Adam a sharp “mind your own business” look.

“He’s very eligible,” says Rashid. I’m intrigued. “A little older than you, but well off. He has probably 75 goats and at least a dozen horses. He has a very large, um, rural estate. But ... how important are teeth to you?” Ah, this would be a nomadic cousin of the Steppes. Someone who has lived his entire life in yurt. Nice one.

“Rashid, I love you, but you suck. Thanks for nothing.”

Looks like my friends aren’t going to help me here. “Thank all of you for nothing. What’s the Sanzhar version of Tinder?” 

The awkwardness dissolves but nobody offers any useful information. I’m on my own, apparently.


	28. The Chernov Job

As May comes to a close, Adam gets a call from the Sanzharistan Minister of Culture’s office. He’s being summoned to a meeting at the presidential palace, of all places, and he’s been asked to bring me. Just the two of us, nobody else. We’re mystified. When we arrive, I’m not entirely surprised to find some personnel from the American embassy are there along with a Sanzhar cultural attaché. 

They have secured an invitation for Adam to perform a couple of songs at a very exclusive party in Moscow this weekend. The host is Dmitri Chernov, rich oligarch, patron of the arts, friend of Putin. They know Adam’s busy but they really want him to do it. They tell him he would be doing his country a service. Meet everyone, make a good impression, talk up Sanzharistan. He is utterly incapable of saying no to serving his country. But... they tell him he needs to take me with him as his assistant. 

This is one of the few kinds of appearances where I probably wouldn’t go with him. One night, private party, no media, no logistics to navigate, no reason for me to whisper in his ear. And Adam doesn’t like the idea.

“I know the kind of people who will be at this party. I do not want Katya among them.” Dude. That kind of thing should be my decision. “And I do not need an interpreter in Russia.”

“Don’t forget Kate’s background. She knows how to handle herself around people like that. And there will be people there from other countries,” they say, “She could be useful.” 

Adam is suspicious. “That does not seem likely.” 

“Take her anyway,” they say. It doesn’t sound very optional. As stubborn as he is, this is his government asking. He agrees but he knows something is up. 

“We’ll send over all the information. And of course we’ll pay for the trip.”

He’s on edge. “OK, do that. Katya, let’s go.” 

“Kate, actually...” its Robert, who I haven’t seen in months, flashing me a winning smile. “Do you have time for a coffee? Catch up a bit?”

I do, and Robert is still potentially date-able. But I also suspect that this is a ruse to get me to stay behind. I haven’t had a job for the embassy in almost two months. I bet they have a little task for me at this party. “I’d love to have coffee!” I smile back brightly.

“Katya, we need go. We have things to do.” Adam really doesn’t want me to stay.

“Nothing that can’t wait an hour. Go on, I’ll catch up with you.” It’s weird feeling like all the men at the table are deciding what I’m doing and where I’m going. I could come back later, but I don’t feel like obeying Adam.

He stares me down, and when I don’t blink, he acquiesces. “Don’t be long.”

“I won’t.”

He leaves. 

“Sorry, Kate.”

“What’s up?” 

The Sanzhar attaché leaves the room, and in a moment, the American Minister Counselor from the embassy comes in. He has a job I hope to have eventually. It’s just us three Americans, sitting in a room in the Sanzharistan presidential palace. I guess this is work.

There will be some people at the party that they’d like me to try to get near to. Some Koreans. North Koreans. If I can get near, great, if I can’t, so be it. If I see them talking to Chernov, see if I can get close enough to hear what they talk about. No big deal. No recording or anything heavy like that, just see what I can overhear. Don’t let anyone at the party know that I speak Korean. Keep it to Russian and English. Don’t share anything about myself. I’m just Adam’s assistant. They pull up a monitor and brief me on three people. This is 100% field op prep.

Just go, mingle, listen, come back and report. If there isn’t anything to report, fine. Enjoy the party. Also, leave the uniform at home. Wear something nice so you fit in enough to speak with the guests if there’s an opportunity.

It’s a very easy, low-level job. Not serious espionage. Basic eavesdropping. I don’t have to bring anything but my ears or take anything but memories.

I’m not to tell anyone about this. 

I realize why this was at the palace. I can’t go to the embassy anymore. It has to look like those ties are severed. I also realize that this is why they were so accepting of me working with Adam. They can use him to get me into places where I can spy for them. I feel horribly conflicted.

On Saturday, we fly out. Change at the hotel. Adam is wearing a white tux, another designer work of art, scandalously shirtless beneath it, a silver treble clef pendant against his bare skin. Only in Russia. He had to wrangle his own flatiron tonight but still looks like a work of art himself.

But hey, for once, so do I. I bought a tight little black dress that looks enough like business attire to set me apart from the actual guests but is still elegant and hot as hell. My strappy black heels. My hair up, showing off my neck. It won’t be hard to get near Chernov, the North Koreans, or any man I want to. I almost never wear the shroud to interpret anymore, but this is not my typical attire either. 

Adam has never seen me in anything so obviously designed to show off my body. I get a definite reaction out of him (Finally! I am a woman!) but it is not a happy one. When he sees me, it’s a hard blink and then a definite frown. Again, a bit of a prude.

“Why are you dressed like that?”

“Gee, thanks, you look nice too. It’s a party.”

“You’re working.”

I look him up and down. “So are you.” It’s not the same thing, obviously, since he’s performing, but it works. He makes no further comment.

Limo to the party. Military-level security checks us in at a gate at the end of a long driveway. When we arrive, the party is well underway. People have been anxiously awaiting Adam’s arrival. They immediately fawn all over him. A number of rich oligarchs’ wives are fans and they clamor for his attention, all glamorous gowns and enormous jewels and premium skin care. They are smooth and perfect and look like they wash their faces in the blood of virgins. They are Russian so it’s easy for me to separate from Adam’s shoulder and mingle a bit on my own. 

It’s even easier to catch Chernov’s eye. I give him a friendly smile that says “Hi, benevolent host! I’m too far beneath you to approach you but I want to express my gratitude for being able to attend your party! Also, I have a beautiful smile and if you haven’t noticed, these are my boobs!” Being 25 and pretty does have advantages.

He comes right over to me and makes small talk. Oh my God, that was easy. I exclaim at what a treat it is for a lowly staffer like me to be in his impressive and elegant (gaudy and overwrought) home. He is ever so welcoming and walks me around, liberally running his hand up and down my back, perilously close to my posterior, showing me various works of art in his tacky mansion. 

He offers me a drink, which I accept. I pretend to drink it and set the glass down as soon as I spot a little cluster of empties on a cocktail table. This is how you hide not drinking. Adam keeps looking over in consternation, his height allowing him to easily track me over the heads of everyone around him. I try to make an expression that conveys a combination of “I’m fine” and “leave me alone.” He’s surrounded by admirers anyway, so he entertains them. He’s in performer mode, dashing and charming in his tuxedo. For a moment I’m reminded of James Bond, but of course if anything went south here, he’d have to sing us out of it.

After a while, two of the North Koreans appear, along with a few other apparent countrymen. Chernov hasn’t noticed them and I want to make sure that I’m still with him when they greet their host, so I amp up the attention. I smile a lot and laugh at his jokes and touch his arm. He’s eating it up. I can’t believe I’m doing this. This is exactly why I didn’t pursue this line of work. 

The two North Koreans come over and they chat. It’s mostly Russian and just chit chat, but the North Koreans sometimes drop into Korean to talk to each other. I pick up a few things that might be interesting. Still waiting for a “painting” to be delivered to one of their seaside estates. It’s overdue. They have no reason to speak in code among themselves, but maybe they are being cautious. They are buying the painting from Chernov. He takes them on the same art tour he gave me. 

I make eyes at the younger, better-looking North Korean who might believe that I could possibly find him attractive. It works and he starts talking to me while Chernov talks to the other one. I almost switch to Korean but catch myself and stick to Russian. His name is Kim Sung-Hoon. He wants to show off. He tells me more than he should about how big his seaside estate is, the yacht he docks there, the view from his bedroom window, that the security at his entrance makes Chernov’s look amateur. I act appropriately impressed. He compliments my pearl earrings and takes the liberty of touching one, making his fingers graze the erogenous spot at the corner of my jaw. I’m repulsed, but I tilt my head into it just a tiny bit.

Adam has had enough. He really doesn’t approve of men taking liberties with women and he is very protective of his friends. He breaks free of his flock and joins us, ostensibly to thank his host. I think for a moment that he might actually wag his finger at earring-toucher, as he did the pig in London. But he just plants himself between us so I am positioned in my spot behind his shoulder. 

The men instinctively form a little circle, excluding the inferior, irrelevant, female staffer. I’m quickly forgotten. They don’t know Adam in North Korea, so Chernov sings his praises and boasts that Adam will be performing in a bit. Adam is polite and I’m sure only I can tell that he’s simmering. 

In a couple of minutes he says he needs his assistant. He takes me more firmly than necessary by the upper arm and leads me away and deep into another room where he deposits me against a wall with a stern look. “I assume you don’t really want your first kiss in two years from one of them,” he snipes at me. Ouch.

I stay in my place, mentally recording the room, while he finishes working the crowd. It’s just as well. If I had loitered longer it might have started to look suspicious. Actually, that was perfect. If I had been here alone, I’m not sure how I could have extricated myself cleanly. A proposition was certainly going to be forthcoming. And no, that’s not where I want my next kiss to come from.

The party goes on. Adam sings the Vocal Performance of the Year song, obviously, followed by Live on Love, which is now charting in Russia, and thrills them with another new song that he has not yet released. He brings the house down. He even makes my pulse race. He’s feeling something tonight. I don’t know where he pulls all that emotion out of. 

The evening is over. Chernov and the North Koreans have completely forgotten me among the glitterati. After, while Adam and I wait for our limo, I see the North Koreans getting into theirs. A member of their security detail is holding the car door for them. Something about his body language makes me look at him. His eyes flit meaningfully across mine as he shuts the door and turns to climb in front. It’s Min-Ho. I’m stunned but I don’t react. They could have warned me! But of course they didn’t. What I don’t know, I can’t be forced to tell.

In the car, Adam seems pensive. He’s quiet and watching the mansions of Moscow’s most rich and infamous pass by. I feel like I have to say something.

“Thanks for rescuing me.”

His face is implacable as he turns to me. He looks at me coolly for a moment, then asks, “Are you using me?”

My heart lurches with a painful adrenaline rush. I feel cold prickles all over my body. I have been told not to tell him about my assignment. But he’s way too smart and knows me too well by now. He knows I don’t act like I did tonight. I can’t lie to him. 

“I think our governments are using us both.”

He looks so solemn. “Did your government pay you to get close to those men?”

I feel awful for deceiving him. I don’t ever want to do this again. “There’s usually a stipend for this sort of thing.”

He is merciless. “Did your government pay you to get close to me?”

“No!” I’m horrified he could think that I’ve been playing him like I played those men in there. That I’m using him for access. My body flushes from cold to hot as I suddenly realize how important this relationship has become to me. He is my best friend, the best friend I have ever had. Our relationship is way too important for me to jeopardize it for additional opportunities to eavesdrop on handsy authoritarians. 

“No, no, no. This...” I don’t know what word to use, so I just gesture from my heart toward him and back. “This has nothing to do with them.” 

“Are you sure?”

“I swear it. I’m working with you because I want to.” I sound scared and desperate to myself. He has to believe me. “I could never ... fake ... what I have with you.” 

He regards me another moment, then I can tell that he has decided to believe me. “Good.” He is still not happy. “Were you in danger?”

“No. I was just there to overhear what I could. Even if I couldn’t hear anything. That’s it.”

“And that’s why you dressed like this, acted like that with those men.” He hasn’t changed his expression at all. I still can’t read it.

“Yes.”

“I don’t like it.”

“I can see that.” I feel ashamed and I’m sure I sound contrite.

“Don’t deceive me again.”

“I swear to God I won’t. And I never have before.”

He nods. “I believe you.”

Back in Izmir, I go to somebody’s apartment in a high rise much like my own and they grill me on everything I saw and heard. Did those two North Koreans mention guy number three? They played it pretty casual about what I was supposed to do when they made the assignment, but now they want details. They are recording my debriefing. 

I wasn’t casual though. My attention was ramped up to red carpet firing squad levels and I used all my tools to memorize what I saw and heard. I remember a lot and I give them everything, especially about the “painting” and the estate to which it should be delivered. They seem pleased.

I am beginning to suspect that I was never meant to have a desk in Moscow. Those casual conversations about becoming a field agent are now starting to feel like recruitment. This is the US government, and my assets are its assets. My assets are valuable. Nobody my age, no woman who looks like me, no-one who speaks as many disparate languages as I do, is on their payroll. Nobody who has the unique combination of degrees and knowledge that I do. Nobody with no social media footprint, no family or friends back home, no connections to be exploited. I am a unicorn. Of course this is what they have wanted me doing, probably from my very first interview. 

They just needed to get 22-year old me some experience and sophistication. To make me comfortable talking with and moving among the world’s most powerful people on every continent. Teach me to be congenial, observant, invisible, or incredibly attractive as the occasion demands. Keep me moving so I don’t make connections. Store me out of sight in an obscure country where I won’t encounter anyone who might ever be a target and am not likely to develop relationships that could make me vulnerable. Give me a taste of spy work and see if I’ll change my mind. How could I have missed it? 

They didn’t fire me. They moved me to an off-book branch of the Foreign Service. One where it is super helpful to have a completely unrelated job that requires lots of international travel and provides occasional access to invitation-only events attended by the sorts of people that my government might be interested in overhearing.

The trip to Chengdu was to test my skills. See how I would do interacting with a bunch of people under false pretenses. See if I could pretend I don’t speak the language. See if I’m keeping my Spy 201 skills sharp. This was the real assignment, I’m sure of it. And I just got an A.

When it’s over, I ask: “Was this your plan for me all along?” 

The Minister replies: “I’m afraid that’s above your clearance.”

He hands me an envelope. It’s cash. $2,000 for an overnight trip. The same pay as my trip to Korea. Being a courier doesn’t pay much, but I guess I’m worth $1,000 a day as a spy. I don’t know what to think.


	29. Tuánjié

We spend the first week of June in China, filming the music video for “Live on Love.” Adam and Rashid turned the song on its head. It’s now the singer’s desperate plea to keep a lover who is slipping through his fingers. She loves him but needs things he can’t give her. Everything would be fine if she could only live on love and forget everything else. It’s painful and real now instead of cloying. It’s way better. It’s definitely reminiscent of my relationship with David. I feel very proud of my contribution.

I have come to the point where I feel like an indispensable part of the team when we are working. I am on excellent terms with all the little moons. The planets like me and call on me more and more to help in ways that go beyond my language skills. I am Dilshad’s right hand and I’m taking an increasing part not only in implementing his strategy but contributing to it. It would have taken me a decade to feel this useful at the State Department. I would probably never have developed these kinds of relationships. 

And this world is truly a lot more fun than the embassy. I mean look at this, I’m on a music video set! I don’t know how long I’ll be here, how long this can continue, but I’m thinking less and less about that possible future job in Moscow. 

The music video, like all music videos, is basically a big budget commercial for the album and tour, so the plan is to release it in advance. Shooting a music video like this takes nearly 30 performers and crew and a mess of equipment, packed into three passenger vans and a 20-foot cargo truck. We are way out on location on the coast in an amazing landscape of hoodoos and rock formations carved by the surf. It’s a gamble to spend so much money when the album isn’t even done, but the guys are that confident Adam will make it back. I hope they’re right.

There are a lot of shots of Adam looking desperate and miserable and very sexy, of course, lip syncing to his song while the waves crash in under the formations and send spray up into the air from below. We all laugh and make fun of him going through multiple wet silk shirts, clinging to him and revealing too much, which is pretty much the point of this sequence. He’s not ridiculously ripped like Cho-Ji, but he stays in very good shape and the producers are taking full advantage of it. Thank goodness its summer. They’d have him out here in January if they had to. 

Aside from that, today is mainly to film the backup singers and dancers doing their thing on the rocks, so Adam, and therefore I, get to relax and hang out quite a bit, chatting with the crew. One of the local guys asks if we have visited a special attraction in the area. It’s a mountaintop shrine called Tuánjié, which means Unity. I noticed the park entrance on our way to location. 

He tells us that Tuánjié is said to be an intensely spiritual place where ancient people were known to have vision quests. Apparently, when they reach the top, people are overcome with an intense spiritual euphoria that feels like a drug. They report a profound feeling of peace and oneness, hence the name. It sounds interesting, to say the least. 

Adam wants to check it out, so at the end of the day, on the way back to town, our van pulls into the park. It’s a very tough hike up – only a mile long but 1500 feet of elevation gain and nearly 2000 steps carved in the stone. The signs at the bottom of the incline are intimidating, warning visitors how difficult the climb is and how long it takes rescue personnel to arrive if something goes wrong. Nobody wants to make the climb; they are too tired. Adam and I look at each other and don’t need to say a word. Of course we’re doing it. Everyone else will explore and relax at the park at the bottom while we go up and back. 

The stairs are green and mossy and very steep. The humid sea air leaves a mist that makes the whole thing feel mysterious and otherworldly. It is so quiet I can hear the ocean from a mile away. Despite Tuánjié’s reputation, I didn’t expect to feel anything at all, but I’m already feeling something, and it’s building. The hairs on the back of my neck are standing up.

We climb in silence, just breathing. At five foot two, my height is a disadvantage on the high steps. They are much harder for me than for him. Near the top I say I don’t think I can make it. He gets behind me, hands on my back, and pushes, helping me up the last 100 steps or so. 

We finally reach the top. It took us almost an hour to get up here. It’s almost sunset and we are alone. The stairs open onto a broad ledge backed by a tall, wide, shallow cave. A carved stone pillar almost as tall as I am sits in the middle of the cave, covered in Chinese characters all related to the theme of Tuánjié. This is the shrine. 

To our left is a stunning view of the sea. In front of us, stretching into the distance on our right, is a sweeping field of the surreal geologic formations for which this park is famous, formed over literally millions of years. We are looking into the distant past, before people, before anything.

I’m lightheaded from the exertion, but more than that, the effect I was already feeling intensifies immediately, and it grows quickly. After several minutes of watching in silence, I feel like my inner world is tilting off its axis. I’m having some kind of epiphany. The ancient formations, the ocean, the quality of the light and the air, something indefinable is making me hyper conscious of the vastness and age of the world. 

I feel utterly insignificant, but in a beautiful way that leaves me feeling liberated and humbled and very human. My life means so little in light of this panorama of geologic time. My problems, my worries, my trivial concerns mean nothing at all. Not just mine; everyone’s. All the strife and struggle that we put ourselves through is meaningless. 

The only human thing that is truly meaningful is our connection to each other. And boy, do I feel it. I feel connected to all of humanity. I am overcome with a sensation that I have never even come close to feeling before. My reserved, inhibited, lonely heart is blooming in my chest. Bursting. I am just overcome with gratitude and love. I understand exactly why this place has its name even though I can’t understand at all why it is having this effect on me. I almost feel like I’m hallucinating. Maybe there really is something in the air here. I’m dizzy, like I might pass out. 

My nose stings, and tears well up. As I stand looking out over the world, I think of the family I’ve lost and the friends I’ve found, and my love for all of them becomes so intense I almost can’t bear it. 

Then the person I love most of all speaks to me.

“Katya.”

I turn. Whatever breath I had left in me is taken away by the sight of him. In the sunset, against the clouds, he is just indescribable. He could be a literal angel; he could reveal wings to me and I would not be one bit surprised. I can’t look away. I feel like I am looking right into his soul, and he into mine. What I see is the same radiant, beatific love that I’m feeling. I am not one to gush about my feelings for anyone, and of course I have been extra careful with Adam. But right now, I couldn’t hide anything if I wanted to. I don’t even want to. 

Something is happening. Whatever it is, it’s beautiful. It feels sacred.

He is solemn as he holds his hands out to me, palms up.

“Pray with me.”

Nothing could feel more appropriate. I place my hands in his. He pulls us down to our knees. We sit on our heels, facing each other, so close that our knees are interlocked. The connection flowing between us is electrifying. We bow our heads, our foreheads almost touching. I can feel the heat coming off him and his breath on my face. I can hear wind and birdsong and the distant roar of the sea. I have never felt anything like this. I’m not religious, but this feels like the hand of God.

“What are we praying for?”

The emotion in those dark eyes should scare me. But instead, I feel completely safe. Fear is gone. 

“Just ... join me.”

I don’t know how I understand his meaning, but I do. He prays in Sanzhar. Some of it sounds like he is reciting verses, some sounds spontaneous. I hear him say the name of God, and his name and my own. Other than that I don’t know what he is saying, but it doesn’t matter, because I feel what he is feeling. 

While I listen to his voice, I devote my entire mind and soul to amplifying his prayer. It seems like a long time. For those moments, I truly feel like Adam and I are one. I understand what religious people mean by communion. I don’t know what he’s doing, but something is happening to me. Whatever was happening before this prayer, this is more. This is life altering. A powerful feeling comes over me that something has changed in my very soul. In a very good way. I feel, well, I guess the right word is blessed.

“Amen,” he says. I don’t have to say it myself. 

We stay that way for another few seconds. Then he stands and pulls me up. I feel stunned and transformed.

He is still holding my hands, watching me closely. “God answered.”

“I felt it.” 

“This stays between us for now. This is private. Yes?”

“I wouldn’t know how to explain this anyway.”

“One day I will tell you.” He lets go of my hands.

The sun is heading down fast. 

“We should go,” I say. I’m dazed, strangely happy. I have no idea how long we have been up here. Ten minutes? An hour? Time seemed to stop. Back at the staircase, he goes first, obviously so he can catch me if I stumble. Fine, it may be sexist, but he’s a more than a foot taller than me and way stronger and probably could save me from tumbling to my death if I did stumble, while the converse is certainly not true.

As we near the bottom I’m starting to feel more normal. Maybe whatever psychedelic gas permeates the air up top is less concentrated down here. When we emerge from the trailhead, it is well and truly dark. The team, unable to reach us due to lack of cell service, is well and truly annoyed. Amongst the exclamations and recriminations and questioning, I learn that we have been gone more than two hours. Adam blames it on the long climb. 

Amelia is characteristically diplomatic. “What the hell were you doing up there?!”

I am at a loss, but he answers. “It’s a shrine. We were praying. Should we have hurried?”

She narrows her eyes and then rolls them. “Well, we’re all starving. Let’s go.”

I climb into the furthest back bench of the large van. Adam follows me in. Rashid joins us and the rest of the gang piles in behind. 

He doesn’t talk to me or acknowledge me at all. But I can feel him with me, like he’s part of me. I feel him like I feel my own hands. To a lesser extent I feel everyone in the van in a way I didn’t before. I have been changed. As I watch the hills fly by under the moonlight, Adam and Rashid chat in a mix of Russian and Sanzhar about random things old friends talk about, with a little about the tour, some plans to adjust this or that in a new song, singing bits of it as they go. Their voices, and the scenery, the hum of the engine, and the exhaustion in my legs and mind all make me feel incredibly peaceful.

Back at the hotel I’m last getting out of the van. As Adam hops out, he turns back and holds out a hand to help me out. My legs are so stiff and weak that I actually need it. He gives me a secret smile, a tiny gift that only I can see, an acknowledgement of what has passed between us. I realize that I don’t know how things will be now.

But he releases my hand the instant my feet hit the pavement, turns to the group, and everything is just like normal. At the hotel restaurant he sits next to me just like normal. He pays me no special attention, as usual. He is as chatty and friendly as always, talking with all of us, stealing people’s chips, allowing Rashid and Ismail to conduct the waitstaff. Maybe he has religious epiphanies and spiritual communion with his friends every day and this is just normal for him. 

It isn’t at all normal for me, but I try to act normal. I chat with some of the women about sightseeing in South America. We have built in a little extra time because we don’t yet know what opportunities Adam might have there after the album drops. I’m hoping the extra time will let me be a tourist for once. We become engrossed in planning for our hours off. 

Dinner passes very pleasantly, Ismail pays the bill, and we all rise to leave. The men hug each other and good nights are exchanged with only one tiny difference. After Adam kisses Amelia’s cheek, he also kisses mine. His lips are warm and soft. He does it with exactly the same level of quick, affectionate remoteness he does to her, then he’s hugging the next man. If anyone notices, I can’t tell.


	30. Spill the Chai

In my room, finally alone, I try to make sense of the evening. That was without a doubt the most intense experience I had ever had. It felt so significant. Even now, hours later, I feel that something touched me and left me changed in some fundamental, irreversible, way. And I shared that experience with another person. A person for whom I had been working very carefully not to develop any special feelings, swimming upstream against his countless charms. 

Between that and the kiss on my cheek that I can still feel, it is obvious that I have to revisit my feelings for him. The attraction has actually become pretty easy to deal with. The trickier part is that I truly love him. I knew that, of course, but until tonight I didn’t realize quite how much. Together, those things could very easily develop into a crush. Oh, who am I kidding? At this point, if I allow any romantic feelings to develop at all, it will be far more than a crush. I cannot let that happen. It’s still manageable at this point, but active management is going to be required. Ignoring it will not work. 

Fortunately, while we are obviously very close now, he hasn’t given any indication that his feelings for me are romantic either. One thing I know is that when it comes to women, Sanzhar men say what they want. It’s a matter of honor. Plus, Adam wears his heart on his sleeve. If he had any kind of romantic interest, he would have made that plain. He hasn’t, not remotely. The only times I have ever even suspected otherwise were after his concerts in Seoul and Omsk, half a year ago, before I really knew him or how he is after his shows. There has been nothing but friendly camaraderie since then. And whatever tonight was. 

Besides, even if he were interested, nothing can happen between us. We will never date. He can’t even do that without creating all kinds of career drama that nobody wants. I’m not Sanzhar or Muslim, which is not only very important to him, but essential for his family. They would never approve of him being with me no matter how much they like or respect me now. And without his family’s approval, any kind of relationship would be dead in the water. 

What happened up there didn’t change any of that. Even though that whole experience was overwhelming and emotional and I felt connected to him like I had never even imagined I could feel connected to anyone, even though there was love, there wasn’t anything about it that suggested romance. We essentially just went to church and sat in the same pew. It was spiritual, not physical, certainly not sexual, not romantic. 

And who wants to date a huge celebrity anyway? What a hassle. Much better to be best friends. 

So, despite the intensity of whatever it was that happened, we will carry on as we have, just a bit closer now because of a very special moment that we shared. 

I feel reassured after thinking it through.

There is a knock at my door, and my heart jumps into my mouth. 

I open it a crack. It’s Amelia. I am instantly both relieved and crushed, and it becomes manifestly clear that I my feelings-management efforts need begin promptly. 

She stands in the hall, hand on her cocked hip, eyebrow arched.

“Chai.”

“What?”

“Spill it.”

I open the door the rest of the way and she strides in, plunking down in the club chair.

“Spill the tea. What happened up there?”

I am honestly surprised. 

“What are you talking about? Nothing happened.”

“Lies. Something happened.”

“No, why do you think that?”

She gives me her best don’t bullshit me look.

“You were gone way too long.” She throws her ponytail over the back of the chair and leans back, arms crossed. “When you came back something was written all over both your faces. He followed you into the back of the van like a puppy. And don’t think I didn’t see him kiss you. How are you kissing cousins all the sudden?” 

So, it was noticeable after all. I hope it was only Amelia, but no such luck. “His Dad is in his room grilling him right now. So I’m grilling you.”

Her perspective is intriguing to say the least. I stand there, surely looking like an idiot, with my mouth agape.

“Um.”

“Did you make out?” She’s practically rubbing her hands together in glee.

“No!”

“Did he tell you he’s in love with you?” 

My hairs stand on end at that. But no, he didn’t, not in so many words, and not that kind of love anyway.

“What? God, no.”

“Did you tell him?”

“Amelia, no! Nothing like that at all.”

She waits.

I sigh in annoyance. “Look, we did have a moment, but honestly it was just what he said.” I hesitate, not wanting to break his command to keep it private. 

I say as little as I can. “He said a prayer and I prayed with him. It is really intense up there. We had a spiritual experience. That’s all. There was nothing else.”

Nothing other than his face in the glow of the setting sun, his hands clasping mine, his breath on my cheek as we knelt together, his voice carrying my soul, cleaving into him and becoming one. What the hell was that?

“You two went to a shrine alone together and prayed.” I can’t tell whether she thinks that’s significant or doesn’t believe me.

“Yes.”

“What did you pray for?” She’s giving me one hard look.

“I don’t know, he was speaking Sanzhar. World peace, universal love. Something like that. I just prayed for whatever he was praying for.” I shrug. “That’s it. There is no tea to spill. I’m sorry to disappoint you.” 

I try to sound confident. 

“But I guess it made me eligible for a kiss on the cheek. I’m sure I won’t get any more unless I marry one of his friends like you did. Which you are still not helping with, by the way.” Diversionary tactic deployed.

She scrutinizes me, looking for a tell. I silently thank my years of diplomatic training. 

She stands up.

“I don’t believe you.”

“Amelia! Really, don’t get any ideas. We’re colleagues. Friends. That’s it. We weren’t even at the shrine that long. The climb just takes forever.” 

“I know him. He is my husband’s best friend. The way he is with you is not ‘colleagues, friends, that’s it.’ Nobody believes that. Has he really not said anything to you?”

Her assessment takes me aback. I mean, of course I know that our relationship is unusual, but I never would have suspected that our friends thought what she’s suggesting. That would certainly explain why they aren’t setting me up with anyone else.

“He really, truly has not. He has not said anything or done anything. And you know he would if there was anything there. He doesn’t touch me, he doesn’t make eyes at me, he doesn’t text me in the middle of the night, no hints or innuendos, ever. What you see is all there is. We’ve just gotten really close from all the time we spend together.”

She frowns. “Hmm. Really.” She knows the ways of Sanzhar men better than I do. “Well, alright then. But something is going on.”

“Whatever it is, it’s not what you think.”

“Fine, I believe you’re telling some of the truth.” She saunters to the door, pulls it open, and looks back over her shoulder. “But I don’t believe you’re telling the whole truth.” Eyebrow arched, she leaves.

Touché. 

I struggle. Actually, that was the whole truth. We went up the mountain, we had a really intense, humbling spiritual experience, he prayed and I lent him all the power my spirit has. We didn’t say a single word about ourselves or each other or any feelings either of us might or might not have. 

But something changed, not only inside me, but between us. I don’t understand what, but something happened.

My phone buzzes. Ironically, given that I just said he doesn’t text me in the middle of the night, it’s a text from him. It just says, “Sleep well.” I can’t tell if it’s sincere or a joke. If it’s a joke, it’s a good one. I don’t expect to sleep well at all. I text back. “You too.” And that’s it. 


	31. Cherries and Crabapples

The next day he is filming in a picturesque, park-like neighborhood that looks like a small town. The shots are just him singing. The rest of the team isn’t needed. I play the role of group interpreter today, helping everyone. Nothing is different except that I feel closer to him. That new feeling of being tangibly, almost physically connected to him is still lingering, even when he’s on set and I’m on the sidelines. 

As the day wears on, I think about the team. I have known all along that they all love him dearly, just as I have come to. They would all do virtually anything for him. This depth of feeling is what makes some people refer to his team as a cult. Maybe this isn’t the first time he has prayed with somebody like that. Maybe they have all had some kind of experience bonding them to him in the way that I now feel bonded. Especially the ones who have known him since he was a teenager, or even longer. That kind of intense connection happens more naturally at those ages. Maybe I was just the only one who hadn’t yet had something like that with him. That’s a comforting thought.

The local Chinese stylists have turned him into an Adonis yet again. Everything he’s wearing is deliberately soft and begging to be touched. After last night, it’s a little hard to look at him. He stands in the spotlight, glorious, radiant, delivering whatever emotion is required. News of the shoot has gotten out and hundreds of fans, mostly women and girls, have come to watch, screaming out their own brand of love for him. His Chinese fans are the most demonstrative of all. He has no bad side, so he is completely unfazed by all their cameras.

The crew has to tell them to be quiet for filming. Some are completely hysterical and have to be led off. The hardcore fans know everyone in his entourage, including me. I detect an undercurrent of hostility from them that I haven’t felt before. It’s like they can detect the change between us. I can feel their envy billowing out at me between takes as I stand with him, telling him whatever he needs to know. He doesn’t notice. He waves and blows kisses at them over the top of my head. While they scream and faint in response, as always, it all seems to roll right off him. 

We get to leave as soon as he is done. The crew will be filming a night sequence with the dancers in a few hours. We climb into the limo, alone for the first time since last night, and take facing seats as always. I feel him looking at me. He still in performer mode. He is lounging against the door, resting his elbow on the armrest, his thumb under his chin and his knuckle to his lips, appraising me through his eyelashes with one of his signature lens-melting gazes. My body responds viscerally. He’s doing it again, teasing me with his superpowers, seeing if he can get a rise out of me. It’s usually funny. But today? Not fair, seriously. 

“How are you?” he asks.

Oh, so we’re going to address this. There’s no point in pretending I don’t know what he means.

“I don’t know how to answer that.”

“Try.” 

He’s still looking at me like that. He should stop that. This is not the time to play at being seductive.

I ignore it and give him a serious answer. “I feel different. Like something changed.” I can’t quite manage to say that something changed between us, so I just add, “Like I changed.” 

“Yes. Good or bad?”

Ugh, so awkward! “Good, I guess. It felt right, anyway.”

“Good. Me too.”

“I just don’t know what it was.”

He makes a noncommittal sound. 

“Do you?”

He looks out the window, choosing his words. “Tuánjié means unity. That is close enough for now.”

“Yeah, that sounds about right.” It feels very delicate, because while we’re talking generally about the overall experience, I’m thinking most about what happened between us specifically. Unity might be close enough right now, but it doesn’t feel like the whole story.

“Amelia had questions.” 

“What did you tell her?”

“The truth.” His eyebrows go up the slightest bit. “That it was exactly as you said.” I shrug. “The climb took forever, it was beautiful up there, we said a prayer, and that was it.” I try to look impassive and calm. He holds my gaze for a few seconds, then takes a deep breath and nods.

“Good.”

“What did you tell your dad?” 

“The truth.” Unlike me, he doesn’t elaborate. I know when he says something is “private” that usually includes him and his family. I’m not aware that he keeps anything from them. He might have told his Dad what I told Amelia and kept the rest between us or told him much more. 

“What did he say?”

He looks down and his lips twitch. He looks troubled. “He reminded me that...” he searches for the words. “Cherries and crabapples look the same in the spring. It’s a saying.”

I’m perplexed. “What does it mean?”

“It does not matter. I understood.” He lets out a heavy sigh and looks out the window again, now frowning.


	32. Our Relationship is a Problem

Back from the shoot, weeks go by. The performers are working on the album, the staff is working on planning and promotion, life going on with this subtle shift in our relationship, but nothing else. Everything is pretty much normal. 

I have had to take over some of Saraiya’s social media responsibilities since she is feeling tired from her pregnancy and has reduced her hours. Every day I have to update various sites with new images of Adam, which means I have to search through our giant photo library, carefully deciding which pictures are sexiest, sweetest, funniest, most approachable, most intriguing, most mysterious, etc. It’s a little annoying to have as part of your job description the daily task of assessing the various ways in which your boss-friend is appealing to women.

I am engaged in this task when Dilshad shows up at my desk with Adam and Saraiya in tow. They all look unhappy. Shit. I’m in trouble. 

“What?”

“Come to the conference room, please.” Yikes, that was terse.

I follow them in and Saraiya hooks up her laptop to the large wall-mounted monitor. I’m freaking out. Has my work with the embassy come to light? Do they think I’m an anti-Muslim terrorist interrogator? Have I brought shame upon the team? I’ve stopped Instagram chatting with Cho-Ji, surely it isn’t that.

Dilshad takes Saraiya’s wireless mouse as Saraiya sits down. I sit down opposite her. Dilshad looks stern as hell. Adam sits next to me, but on the wrong side, putting himself between me and Dilshad. This is not good. I’m getting a major protective vibe off of him, for which I am grateful, but it is very concerning. If Dilshad wants to fire me, Adam can overrule him. But Adam takes the guidance of his elders. He only digs in his heels when it comes to creative control. If I have done something that makes Dilshad really want me off the team, I’m probably gone.

As Saraiya is typing something in a web browser, Adam says to me in English, “You don’t have to say anything. This is my fault. I will handle it.”

Now I’m completely freaking out. I have never been in trouble at work.

Saraiya has pulled up the Arab Nations fan club Facebook page. Dilshad looks at Adam, then at me, and says right to my face, “Your relationship is becoming a problem.” My jaw drops.

Dilshad goes on. “See for yourself.” He’s scrolling down the page, past numerous images of Adam in various contexts.

“It started on this site but it’s spreading everywhere.” He stops on a post. I can’t read the Arabic, but I can see the long string of angry emojis under the text. Under that is a photo. It’s an extremely high definition shot of me and Adam, taken right after we got back from Tuánjié, when several of us went out after work to hear some friends play at our favorite patio bar. 

We are seated next to each other, of course. My arms are folded on the table and I’m looking down at them. My face is blank; I’m concentrating on listening to Adam tell me something about one of the musicians, a friend of his. Because it was so loud, he had to lean in and speak directly into my ear. His nose and lips are buried in my hair. He looks so happy, his eyes all twinkling and crinkled up from smiling. He is resting one arm on the back of my chair and has extended the other along the table in front of me, so that I am between his arms. I’m shocked to see this. The picture gives the complete wrong impression. I shake my head. Dilshad scrolls down. 

The next image is from a few seconds later and considerably closer up. Whatever he said made me laugh. I remember the moment. I know this is just a split second on the way to both of us sitting up straight, and that in two more instants we’ll be upright in our individual seats and within seconds we’ll be talking to other people. 

But in that frozen moment, I have turned toward him, our faces inches apart, his arms still basically around me. He’s looking at my eyes, smiling affectionately, and I am looking at his lips, smiling back. It is extraordinarily difficult not to look at his lips. They are perfection. A few strands of my hair are still clinging to his cheek, tethering us together. We look completely comfortable together and about as intimate as you can get. It absolutely looks like we are about one second away from sharing our thousandth kiss. I can’t help but gasp a little. Good God. Surely this is not what we look like to people, to the team? Is this what Amelia was talking about?

No, it can’t be. This is cherry picking at its finest, designed to inflame the insane rage of jealous fans in the Arab Nations, who do not appreciate their innocent boy nuzzling the ear of a strawberry blonde infidel.

I put my face in my hands. We know Adam is pretty much always being photographed, but this was in a private restaurant patio, with friends, with our guards down. How did anyone get such closeups, such detail? 

Dilshad continues. The furious original post is followed by comment after comment with additional images. I peek through my fingers. He switches to a Russian page. Over the next few minutes I see things I have a hard time explaining. Most are shots of us working, of course, at appearances. 

The earliest ones, from before I officially joined the team, are the most surprising. I’m in my uniform, my face neutral and my eyes trained on the crowd, watching who is coming and going, cataloging what I need to tell him. I’m not looking at him at all. Of course one of the things that impressed me about him in the beginning was his attentiveness to his team, but these photos make it appear that he was very attentive to me. 

There’s a set of shots from various contexts of Adam’s hands sheltering me as we navigate through crowds. Shots of Adam looking at me with expressions I don’t remember ever seeing. Captions like: “Whipped!” Me oblivious, focusing on the crowd rather than him. 

Sitting next to me now, Adam is refusing to look embarrassed or uncomfortable. I guess he’s leaving all that to me.

A Korean fan page. Photos from the K-pop expo. Adam positively glaring in the moment when I let my hair down and Cho-Ji fluffed it and called me, or my hair, or my newfound freedom beautiful. If you didn’t know it was because I was neglecting my job, you would definitely get the wrong idea. Another photo, just as I turn to follow Adam, Cho-Ji’s and Adam’s eyes locked in what could be interpreted any manner of ways. Because it’s Cho-Ji, and I’m the same girl from the two-flowers-on-one-stem photo, these images have been shared all over the world. Rumors about the interpreter are now alight in both fandoms. 

A six-second video of the moment that Adam wrapped his arm around my head and covered my eyes. I’m laughing, trying to pull his arm down, and he looks so playful. At the time I didn’t know how completely out of character that was. Of course his fans hate this. I hadn’t noticed that here too he had his arm along the back of our booth, not around me, but close enough, for at least some of the night. In one shots I had leaned back and my hair – the same hair Cho-Ji had run his fingers through hours before – was now falling through Adam’s fingers. Images of him looking at my face under the colored lights, enjoying my delight as I watch the show. 

These aren’t what they seem. A passing glance looks like a prolonged gaze in a still photo. Even though I know these were just separate instants presented completely out of context and that we had barely known each other a week by then, these images look suggestive even to me.

There is even a photo on the couch after the Seoul concert, him radiating at me and looking utterly love struck, me having my St. Teresa moment. That’s a jaw dropper. But that’s not about me! Everyone here knows that’s just how he looks right after a concert. Here, yes. But not in his fandom.

Adam has been the public eye for years. He should have been more careful. I should have been more careful. It just never crossed my mind that there was anything to be careful about.

In the later ones, after I joined the team, aside from those first two photos, there aren’t any more of those kinds of captured expressions. Instead, it just looks like we are together everywhere, at appearances, at meetings, at meals, in cars. Dozens of photos of me in my spot next to him, seemingly inseparable. There she is, there she is, there she is again, say the comments. 

Sometimes we’re talking and sometimes we’re not, but we’re always together. At work, at play. Oh, God. In the produce section. How to explain that? Even the truth – grocery shopping before we drove to a friend’s house for their anniversary party – sounds like we’re together. It’s not that we’re doing anything incriminating, it’s just that there are so many of them and our connection is so obvious. Him talking to somebody else with his elbow on the back of my chair, yet again. Does he always do that? How have I never noticed? Me looking at my phone, angling it so he can see. It’s all just so comfortable.

I can barely even look between my fingers. These are just random moments culled from thousands. They have been curated and organized to create a specific story. It’s like a ransom note composed of individual letters cut from a magazine – a whole that is barely related to its parts. And on the whole, this does not look like “colleagues, friends, that’s it.” No wonder our friends don’t believe that. In these images, we absolutely look like we are lovers, maybe even married. There’s speculation about that in the comments. They home in on the week of the music video shoot. Tuánjié. His eagle-eyed fans have detected some small but palpable difference between us in the last month.

Some comments are supportive, hoping he’s happy. But far too many, the majority, are terrible. There are awful things about me, of course, but about him too. Even though he has never said whether he is single, they are acting like he lied to them. 

In Russia, their hearts are broken and they can’t stand to hear him or watch him anymore. In the Arab world, he’s betraying his culture, his faith, he doesn’t really have the moral standards he professes. In China they are furious that he has fallen prey to non-Asian blonde hair and big boobs. He is losing followers for the first time on the mere suspicion that he has a Western girlfriend, not Muslim, not Sanzhar, not marriageable, nothing more than a tramp leading him into temptation, where he appears to be following willingly. 

This is a disaster. This is just about the worst thing that could happen to his career, the one thing he has tried so hard to avoid, right at the worst possible time. It has to be stopped. Dilshad is right to be upset.

“You see?” Dilshad prompts.

“This is not what it looks like,” I say through my hands. I feel an overwhelming urge to apologize and deny everything and explain how this is a massive out-of-context misunderstanding.

While I am hiding my face, Adam holds his head high. 

“Do not say anything,” he says. “This is on me.”

His command feels like a shield. I want to hide behind it, but I can’t.

Dilshad looks sternly at Adam. “This is on you. You know better that to allow this.” Dilshad directs his attention to me. “But you. Your job is to support his career, not pretend you’re his girlfriend.”

Wow. That is some serious scorn in his voice. I recoil from it.

“Dilshad.” Adam’s tone is warning. “Don’t.” 

Dilshad looks startled, and then I’m out of his cross-hairs. He focuses back on Adam. “I know you won’t want to, but this time you are going to have to say that there’s nothing between you.”

“No. I will not say anything about my private life. You know that.” 

Dilshad does know, but he is surprised to be contradicted. He huffs.

Saraiya tries. “Then you need to stop being together everywhere. Just, you know. Cool it.” Her wide eyes flit nervously between me and Adam. Holy cow! Even she thinks something is going on! This is really bad.

“I have enough people telling me how to live.” He’s getting incensed.

I look at him. “She’s right, though. We should have been thinking about how we look to other people. Even some of our friends have the wrong idea. We have to fix this. Your fans can’t think you have a girlfriend. Not with the album and tour coming up.”

He is starting to raise his voice. “Fine, no girlfriend. Let’s tell them you are my wife. That will shut them up. Then I can live my life how I want.”

“Very funny,” I retort.

He goes on. “This is none of their business. My work is their business. My personal life is not.”

Saraiya interjects, “You know that doesn’t stop them.”

I continue. I know exactly what he’s thinking. “Look, it totally sucks that it isn’t enough for you to be the best singer in the world, and beautiful, and wonderful, all of which you are.” I can’t say the next bit without cringing. “You have to be single. You know that’s ... central to your appeal.” I hate talking about him like he’s a product. “Look at them. Look how they are turning on you, over nothing.” 

He has no response to this. 

This is miserable, but it has to be done. “Saraiya, there’s really nothing to ‘cool,’ but you are right, we don’t need to be right next to each other all the time. Definitely not when we’re not working. It’s just habit. We can stop that. And we can keep more distance when we are working. It won’t be that hard.”

Saraiya and Dilshad look relived. Adam looks offended at the whole concept. I keep going, thinking about what we would do if this kind of thing came up at the embassy.

“But that won’t be enough to shut this down before Ambassador comes out. We need to get a counter narrative out there, fast. Show that he’s close with everyone, I’m just a regular part of the team with a close-contact job. Post more the behind-the-scenes, what everyone does, how he works with everybody. You know, context. Post lots of pictures that I’m not in.” 

Saraiya looks uncomfortable. “There really aren’t that many since you joined us. Unless he’s in the studio or in front of an audience, you’re always there.” She shrugs helplessly. I’m sure she’s right.

“She’s always there because I need her to be.” He’s getting more agitated.

I turn to Adam. “You don’t really need me very much right now.”

“I need you more than ever right now. Do you know how much pressure I’m under?”

An album, a tour, the livelihoods of several people full time plus the whole crew once the tour stars, all on his 26-year-old shoulders, with millions of fans watching his every move. It’s an insane amount of pressure. A fan blowup right now is the worst possible thing for him. 

I try to speak gently. “I do know. You can’t have this mess on top of everything else. Look, all next month you’re going to be busy recording and then rehearsing. I can’t help you with any of that. Of course I’ll support you at appearances. You have lots of other people to support you everywhere else. We should just go our separate ways until this blows over.”

“Good,” says Dilshad. “I don’t want to see you two together outside of work. When you are working, watch yourselves. Act professional.” He addresses Adam brusquely. “You have a few free days coming up. Go on a trip with some friends or family and get a lot of pictures without her. Forget you even know her.” 

“I don’t want to go on a trip!”

“Do you want to keep touring? Do you want to keep recording? Do you want to work in LA next summer? You can’t do any of that without your fans’ support.”

Of course Adam wants these things. His jaw is clenched, his lips pressed together. “This is my life.” I feel bad for him. He looks like he is watching control over his own destiny slip right through his fingers.

“This is the price of celebrity. This is what you signed up for. I’m sorry, but that’s how it is.” Dilshad addresses me, his tone more respectful now. “You should go on some dates. Go places where people can see you.”

“I haven’t exactly had any luck with that.” No, of course not, who could ask me out when I am glued to the nation’s most eligible bachelor?

Saraiya speaks up. “We have to be careful with that. If they think Katya hurt Adam or cheated on him, they’ll go after her harder. She could even be in danger.”

“This is insane,” Adam says. 

“I know a guy I can have coffee with somewhere public. Somewhere photographable.” I look at Adam. “Maybe you can walk me there so everyone sees how much you don’t mind.” I’m only half sarcastic.

“I am not walking you to a date with another man.” His face has “are you crazy?” all over it.

Ismail told me back at the Victorias that Adam’s stubbornness was one of his faults, and it’s really true. Overcoming it is a monumental task. I know what I have to do and I switch to English to do it. I hit him right in his weak spot, as gently as I can. 

“Adam. This story is a lie. Letting people believe it is the same as lying. And refusing to respond to anything about your private life even when it is hurting your career is pride. Don’t forget, what hurts your career hurts the whole team.” I gesture to Dilshad. “Plus, Dilshad is our elder. We should respect him.” 

He answers in English. “Pretending we mean nothing to each other is also a lie.”

“We don’t have to go that far. We just have to make it clear that we don’t mean that to each other.”

“Is this really what you want?”

No, but saying so won’t help. “Yes.”

“Do you understand what you’re saying? Giving in to this will change everything between us. You are fine with that?”

“We have no choice.”

I’ve never seen him look so upset. This is exactly why he protects his private life so carefully.

He switches back to Russian. “Fine,” he says. “I’ll do it. The rest of you do whatever you have to.” He stands and leaves without looking at me.


	33. The Seoul Job

Conveniently enough, I have a quick job out of town that very weekend. All I have to do is find an excuse to go to Seoul, and while I’m there, hand a guy a briefcase. I quickly find the perfect cover. There will be a little pre-debut show for some trainee groups in N-POWER’s company the night of the handoff. The kind of thing that isn’t publicized outside the exclusive group that Adam became part of thanks to our negotiations for his Korean appearances. I could reasonably be expected to go to something like this as part of Adam’s team to see what is up and coming in K-Pop. It would also make sense for me just to go as a fan, to watch. 

I briefly consider whether I should try to tell Cho-Ji that I’m coming. His comment last month about scouting video locations sure sounded like an invitation. But I have no way to reach him other than over Adam’s Instagram, which Adam is now monitoring. Even if I made my own account and messaged Cho-Ji from it, he’d never notice. He probably gets 100,000 messages a day. If it isn’t from a verified celebrity like Adam, he’ll never see it. 

Besides, who am I kidding? Cho-Ji is one of the biggest stars in the entire world. Spending a few seconds flirting with me online in the last few months does not mean in any way, shape, or form that he would actually make time to see me even if he knew I was coming. It’s embarrassing even to imagine otherwise. I shelve that fantasy.

This isn’t quite like Chernov’s party, but if I’m using my job here as cover, I should tell Adam. I find him in the studio with some of the guys, so I have to call him into the hall. Yikes. I have never seen this expression on his face before. I can’t tell whether he wants to bite my head off or just plain bite me. It must be whatever he is working on. I know it’s not a good idea to interrupt him when he’s working, so I make it quick.

“I have a job for the embassy this weekend. It’s in Seoul. I can’t imagine anyone will ask, but just in case, I need a cover story. I want to say that I’m there to watch a show on behalf of the team. What do you think?”

He doesn’t look like he likes it.

“What’s the job?”

“I just have to deliver a briefcase.”

“That’s all?”

“Yep.”

“What’s in the briefcase?”

“They don’t tell me things like that.”

“So you have no idea whether this is dangerous.”

“I’ll be in a crowded, public restaurant at dinner time. Nothing will happen.”

“In Seoul.”

“Yes.”

“How long will you be gone?”

“One night.”

“Are you going to see Cho-Ji?”

Huh. If this star doesn’t think me seeing that star is a crazy idea, maybe it isn’t. But I still have no way to reach him. “No.”

“Does he know you’re coming?”

“How would he know?”

“Does he?”

“The only way I could tell him would be over your Instagram, and you’ve banned me from using it.”

That gets a little smile out of him. “That’s right. I have.” He pauses. “I really don’t like you doing these jobs but I know I can’t stop you. Go ahead and tell people you’re there for me. Please be careful. Let me know you’re safe when it’s over.”

“Thanks.” I head off.

I really do have no idea what’s in the briefcase, why it can’t just be shipped, or why I have been chosen to deliver it. I do know that a separate courier brings it to Izmir from God knows where and delivers it to my apartment late in the evening, along with a large diplomatic pouch and another US Government burner phone. Unlike my trips to Dushanbe and Chengdu, this time I have specific instructions on handling the pouch, meant to ensure that nobody other than airport security even knows I have it. I am to deliver the briefcase to my contact at the appointed place and hour. It turns out that my contact will be Min-Ho again, and that the appointed hour is 7:00, an hour before my cover show starts. Perfect.

At 7:00, I’m at the appointed place, an uninspired but crowded chicken and soju joint in the heart of the city. I take a table that puts my back to the wall and gives me a view of the front door and the kitchen entrance. Min-Ho is not here. I order some food and wait. By 8:00 I’m getting really nervous. He still hasn’t shown up. His job is dangerous. This could be dangerous. I’ve been pretending to nurse this bottle of soju for way too long. There are plenty of people here making a long evening out of getting very drunk, and I’m starting to feel conspicuous. I don’t know what to do. I call my boss on the burner.

“Hey mom, how are you?”

A pause. I have just told him that our conversation is not private. There is a script for this sort of thing. Simple yes/no questions that I can embellish on my end. My boss replies, “Are you safe?”

“Yeah, I’m just sitting here by myself having some chicken and soju, like a Seoul native.”

“Has your contact arrived?” He knows it’s an hour past our meeting time.

“Not yet.”

“Do you see anything suspicious?”

“Everything’s fine. The food is great. Any news?”

“No, we haven’t heard anything. Give him another half hour. If he still hasn’t shown up, leave.”

“What should I do with your souvenir?”

“Take a cab somewhere far from the restaurant and your hotel and drop it in a dumpster. Then come home as planned. Don’t change your flight. Anything else you need to tell me?”

“Oh no, nothing urgent. Sorry to interrupt you at work. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“OK, be safe.”

“Love you, mom. Bye.”

I’m using every bit of my training to try to look casual while adrenaline pumps through my veins. At 8:25 I’m about ready to leave when Min-Ho comes through the door, moving fast and looking tense. He spots me and comes to the table. He doesn’t sit. He just grabs the brief case and hisses, “Quick, out the back.”

I drop way more cash than I owe on the table, jump up, and head with him to the kitchen, quickly. He has his hand on my back and is propelling me through the kitchen. The staff is looking at us, wide-eyed. We ignore them and head for the back exit. Min-Ho seems to know the way.

Just outside the back door, he points down the alley. “Go that way. Hurry, but don’t run. You weren’t seen. Get a cab and get out of here.” And with that, he takes off in the other direction, hurrying but not running.

My heart pounding, I quickstep the short distance down the alley to the cross street. Sure enough, there’s a spot on the curb with three cabs waiting. I hop in the first one and we’re off to the show. I keep my eyes out the rear window, seeing if anyone is following, as I’ve been trained to do. Nothing.

It’s the same venue as the expo I went to back in February. It’s 9:00 by the time I arrive, and the show is underway. My seat, obtained through VIP channels, is right up front again. Between my lateness, my glaringly non-Asian appearance, and some ill-timed spotlights in the audience, I have to make an uncomfortably conspicuous entrance. After a couple of minutes I’m finally starting to calm down. Then a very large, muscular man wearing a black suit and an earpiece that screams security approaches me.

“Ma’am, can you come with me please?”

Fuck! 

“No thanks, I’m fine here.”

“Ma’am, your presence has been requested in the company suite. It’s right this way.”

People around us are starting to complain and yell for him to get out of the way.

“Ma’am?”

I’m in VIP seats. The guy’s nametag has the venue’s logo on it. Despite his bulk, his smile is friendly. Nobody saw me at the chicken place. I got in the cab fast and I didn’t see anyone tailing us. I decide to see what this is. 

He leads me to double doors in the back of the auditorium flanked by two more guys just like him, who smile and let us through. Behind those doors are few steps up and another door, held open by none other than Song Cho-Ji. My jaw drops.

“Katie! It is you!” He looks delighted to see me. I can’t believe it. He bows. 

I nod in return. “Cho-Ji! What a surprise!” What an understatement. He ushers me through the door. He’s in street clothes, no make-up, no contacts, just a regular blonde Korean guy only 1000 times hotter. And beaming at me like he is very, very happy to see me. This is surreal. Beyond surreal. Keep it together, Kate. He always has to smile like that, he said so himself. 

“What are you doing in Seoul? Are you scouting video locations?”

I try to collect myself. Cho-Ji would never believe that I was assessing talent for Adam, here or anywhere. He’s not a security risk, and given his circumstances, he will never say anything about me publicly. “No, I’m just running a quick errand for the embassy.” 

“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?” He asks. I blink stupidly. “Didn’t you see my last message?”

“Well, yes. But Adam caught me using his Instagram, and I didn’t have any other way to reach you and...” I have to laugh. “I mean. I figured you were probably pretty busy.” 

He’s nodding. He gets my meaning. “You didn’t think I was serious.”

I’m sure I’m blushing. I don’t know why I’m so embarrassed. “Were you?”

“Of course! I’d love to show you my city.” Of course he says that. It doesn’t mean he means it. Although he really looks like he means it. “Unfortunately, I’m working tonight. How long are you here?”

“I leave in the morning.”

“Ah, too bad.” He genuinely looks disappointed. Don’t believe it girl, these boys train facial expressions just like choreography. “Well, let’s make the best of tonight. Come join me.”

It turns out that he and two of the other N-POWER members are here watching the show from the VIP lounge, which is set up like a business center tonight. Looking out, I can see that my entrance was indeed glaringly visible from here. Cho-Ji introduces me to his friends.

“Guys, this is Katie Connor. You remember, she interpreted for us at the American embassy party in Rome. She’s Adam Zapatenov’s international media liaison.” I can’t believe Cho-Ji remembers the fancy title I gave myself. 

They stand and bow and greet me with much more enthusiasm than I would have expected. “Yes, of course, the genius interpreter, we remember you! It’s so nice to see you again, welcome to Seoul!” The Korean-Australian member addresses me in English with a wink as he shakes my hand. “I’m not surprised. He has always has a thing for the smart ones.” Well. I don’t even know what to think of that.

I know I now live on the inside of the bubble that separates the celebrity world from the rest of the world, but interacting with these true ultra-mega-superstars, standing here in their VIP suite, a place ordinarily reserved exclusively for the inner circle, is just unbelievable. 

The members are all shareholders in their production company at this point, so they have a big interest in the new groups coming up. After the show, they will be joining their company’s management and giving feedback to the trainees. This performance is make-or-break for the kids. A lot of them will be getting cut tonight. Everyone will be working late. 

Although Cho-Ji chats with me some, the three of them are focused on the show, assessing the performers’ dance skills, vocal skills, facial expressions, appearance, charisma. They have head shots and forms spread out on a table in front of them, and I watch them mark whether various teenage hopefuls are worthy or unworthy. What cosmetic adjustments (plastic surgery) should be made; what specific skill improvements would move a trainee into the worthy category. Cho-Ji asks my opinion a couple of times while I look over his shoulder.

Watching them work and critique the acts over the next hour is fascinating. Every single thing happening on stage is 100% deliberate and choreographed, practically down to when the performers blink. Adam’s shows have choreography, but it’s so much more organic. Aside from the few times when he joins his dancers, his own performance is always completely spontaneous. It’s a totally different kind of thing. I again realize that K-Pop is Business with a capital B, and the idols next to me are Professionals with a capital P. Our operation is totally bush league compared to this.

When the show is over, the guys have to head backstage. Cho-Ji fixes me with his pheromone smile.

“So, Cutie Katie, I’m so sorry I have to go. When can I see you again?”

Dazzled. I can’t imagine ever having a Tuánjié moment with this guy, but I’ll take any moment with him. Anyone on the planet would. “I don’t know. Adam is finishing up his new album now so we aren’t traveling much until we leave for South America next month.”

“Right, his tour starts back up. Will you be in LA for the Asian Culture Festival?”

“Yes, that’s his grand finale. He’s playing the Hollywood Bowl.”

“Nice! That’s perfect for him. Our tour will start at the Festival. So. Maybe then?”

I shrug. That’s more than two months away. “Maybe.”

Cho-Ji hands me something like a business card. It has his private social media accounts on it. No name, no phone number. He tells me to forget Adam’s Instagram; if I message him at one of those accounts using my own name, he’ll see it. “Keep in touch, OK? Let me know how to find you.” he says. 

I hardly know what to think, so I just thank him. My years among stars, royalty, and captains of industry have taught me that they really are people like anyone else, but Song Cho-Ji is one of the world’s most famous and sought-after men and I simply cannot imagine dropping him a casual line, even though he just invited me to.

This was probably the most exciting night of my life, for better and for worse. I’m back at the hotel before 11:00 and crashing hard. I barely make it into my pajamas and under the covers before I’m completely out.

My phone ringing wakes me up. I’m confused. It’s dark, I’m asleep, and nobody ever calls me. I think for a second that it might be the burner, but I fumble on the nightstand and find that it’s my own phone. Adam’s picture is looking at me.

“What? What is it? What’s happening?” I’m not very coherent.

“Katya. Are you OK?” He’s speaking English.

“Yes, I was asleep.”

“Are you alone?”

“What? Yes, of course.” Is he trying to use a spy script with me?

“How did the handoff go?”

Damn. I can’t lie. “Um. Not quite as planned. My contact was an hour and a half late. I think he was being followed. He rushed in, grabbed the briefcase, and took us out the back fast. He went in one direction and I went in the other and got a cab out of there. It was fine, though. Nobody saw me or followed me.”

“Oh my God. Katya.”

“I know. I have to admit it was a little scary.”

“You were supposed to tell me you were safe.”

“I’m so sorry. I forgot.”

“How could you forget that?”

Somehow, telling him that I forgot about him because I spent the rest of the evening hanging out with a third of N-POWER doesn’t seem very palatable. Besides, there’s another equally valid reason. “I haven’t had to check in with anybody since I broke up with David. I’m not used to it.” I give a little snort. “I’m not supposed to act like your girlfriend, remember?”

The pause is so long that I wonder if he dropped his phone. I hear all kinds of noise in the background, clinking dishes, music. 

“I remember.”

“Where are you?”

“At the beach. Letting lots of pretty girls grope me and take pictures.”

“Good man. Are you having fun?”

“No.” He sounds sulky.

“Well, try to. You’ll be really busy when you get home.”

“I know.”

There’s an awkward pause. We don’t really talk on the phone. We don’t need to, we’re always together. Or we were. I guess that will be different for a while.

“Sleep well, Katya.”

“Good night.”

My return to Sanzharistan is uneventful.


	34. The Counter Narrative is Effective

Over the next month, it turns out that “cooling it” is even easier than I thought. It also turns out that Adam was right that it changes everything between us. Our relationship is suddenly completely different. 

The deadline for Ambassador is looming and everyone is working round the clock trying to finish it. Our social life is totally dead, which makes it easy to comply with Dilshad’s instruction not to see each other outside of work. I had assumed that things would still be normal around the office, but even though Adam is basically living in the studio, he rarely comes in. It almost feels like he is staying away on purpose. I don’t have an excuse to go into the studio and I don’t want to disturb him anyway with the pressure to complete Ambassador so high, so I stay away too. 

The only times I see him are at the few select appearances he does over the next month. He’s only going on a couple of especially big programs, trying to drum up interest before the album’s release. When we’re out working, my place at his shoulder is now about a foot further away than it was. I’m back in the shroud, looking unappealing. Not that it matters; he avoids looking at me at all. There will be no more random glances captured. I become truly invisible, nothing but a voice in his ear. We’re even careful in cars, since we’ve seen that cameras even penetrate there. I don’t like it. It’s lonely. But it’s necessary.

And it works. Adam’s mini-vacation with his family and some of our married friends did what it was supposed to. No “girlfriend” in this couples vacation. He posted lots of selfies and endured endless paparazzi shots with various beaming beautiful girls. He’s always smiling, handsome, cordial but remote, with a friendly arm around one girl or another, their hands pressed to his chest, his belly, his back. Those photos spread on their own.

Saraiya makes sure to capture and post tons of new images, including plenty of one-on-one shots of him and other team members. We flood all his social media with every image of him we can find that doesn’t have me in it. Every photo where he seems intimate with anyone else. I’m there just enough to seem like everything is normal. We show Adam as he is – warm, expressive, and strongly connected to his whole team. The captions are things like “Lunch.” “Friends.” “Working.” “Team A-Z.” 

Shots of team members doing their thing without him too. Saraiya is sure to include photos of me and Dilshad traveling and working, to emphasize my role on the team rather than my relationship with Adam. Pictures of my coffee date with Robert are innocuously among them. “Caffeine is essential!” 

The weekend after my trip to Seoul is the Fourth of July, my one-year anniversary of living in Sanzharistan, and I go by myself to a party with acquaintances from the embassy. Being at a party without my best friend feels surprisingly unnatural. The whole thing is uncomfortable. But it provides some Adam-free photos for me to give Saraiya to include in a post in which Adam wishes his American friends a Happy Independence Day.

Saraiya is beside herself to learn from the internet that I saw Cho-Ji again. I have appeared in the background of a couple of photos of the N-POWER guys working in the VIP lounge that night. Cho-Ji’s fandom picked them up, speculating about why that same girl from the Expo is now hanging out with Cho-Ji at something so behind the scenes. Sure enough, they make their way to Adam’s fan pages on their own. Nothing could be better for our counter narrative, but I’m afraid Adam is not going to be pleased that I didn’t tell him. 

He sends me a text with one of the photos. I’m a bit surprised. Calls and texts have always been for work only. I suppose in this new era of keeping our distance, we’ll communicate like this now.

– So you saw your boyfriend after all.

Uh oh. Also, ha ha. That’s what Cho-Ji called Adam. Men. 

– It was a coincidence. The show was put on by his company. Some of the N-POWER guys were evaluating the trainees. He saw me and invited me to join them.

– Why didn’t you tell me?

– I was kinda focused on other things.

I can’t exactly mention possibly being chased by North Korean assassins over text.

– I’m so happy for you. I bet you had a great time.

OK, he’s not upset. That’s a relief. 

– It was pretty cool to watch them working like that.

– I’m sure you and Cho-Ji will have lots of beautiful babies and a wonderful life together.

– Ha ha. I’m sure we will. Eyeroll emoji.

I consider making my own Instagram account and trying to fill the new void in my social life with more intensive efforts to flirt with Cho-Ji, who has a thing for the smart ones. I decide against it. Although I probably won’t be able to hold out much longer, not being findable on social media has become kind of a point of pride as well as an asset in my other job. And I am just not the kind of person who can throw herself at a man, much less a celebrity of his stature, invitation or no. There’s no possibility of anything happening there. I would just be a groupie, and I can’t be that.

It takes a few weeks, but all those out-of-context of images of Adam and I together start to look mundane when finally put in context with hundreds of images and video clips of us all going about our business in separate places. The furor dies down. The ultimate verdict is that I’m just another one of his team members that he’s close to. Peace reigns in the fandom once again, the follower count climbing once more. 

I know I’m the one who insisted on this, but Adam is doing such a good job not interacting with me at all – there have been no more calls or texts – that our friendship starts to feel remote, not quite real. With the disappearance of the rest of my social life as well, I feel a little untethered. The only thing that feels solid is the job. I’m surprised at how much that bothers me.


	35. Little Moon

The team is now working on the last song, the one Adam thinks will be the first single off Ambassador. He has been working on it for weeks. The album is otherwise completely ready, the digital release date scheduled for ten days from now. Preorders for CDs are already pouring in, everything arranged with the streaming services, registrations with all the performance rights organizations teed up to allow radio play worldwide. He needs to finish this fast. 

Adam can be unbearable when he’s in creative mode. He’ll stay up all night, working on just a line or two over and over. Being the best in the world is a pretty high bar, and he puts too much pressure on himself. He gets irritable and frustrated and everyone has to stay out of his way. Nobody dares venture into the control room except Dilshad, Rashid, and Adam’s mentor Peter Sokolov, who is in town to help. 

All the dishes have disappeared from the kitchenette, obviously spirited away into the studio. One afternoon I take advantage of the men going out to collect them. No way I’d bother them about dishes when they’re working. Sure enough, our entire collection seems to be piled up in the control room. The studio itself, on the other side of the giant glass window, is dark. It is sacred ground where people like me do not dare tread, but I venture in, feeling like a trespasser, to check for more.

Of course, moments later, they all come back into the control room. I’m not sure if I should make myself known, since I don’t belong in the studio. They had only been gone a few minutes, so I stay still, hoping they just came back to grab something and leave. The sound is on and I can hear them. Rashid and Adam are excited because they have finally finished the music for the song. The lyrics are still only sketched out. Adam needs a lyricist now to work on it with him, fast. He’s ready to show it to Peter, who knows all the best ones. 

The song is called Little Moon. Rashid tells Peter that it was inspired by our practice of categorizing people into celestial objects based on their relationship to Adam. Adam pipes up. “First, you should know I don’t like that. It’s not good for anyone.”

Peter disagrees. “But you are the star. You have to own this.”

“No. I am not a ‘star.’ Stars are in the sky. It’s a bad metaphor for life. But it’s a great metaphor for a song.”

“Exactly,” says Rashid. “Amelia always jokes that she’s my moon. It drives me crazy. She’s a star. That’s what the song is about, a star who thinks she’s just a little moon way out on the outskirts of the solar system, but to the singer, the moon is the star at the center of his life.”

“She’s not a moon to me either,” adds Adam. “If I have to be the star in this system, then Amelia’s a planet. My friends are all planets at least.” 

The guys are having a good time, kidding around. “What am I in your solar system?” asks Peter.

“Planet, everyone’s a planet.”

“The band? The dancers?

“All planets.”

Dilshad chimes in, poking fun at his client. “Me? Am I a planet? Aren’t I the boss here? I should be the star.”

“You’re a gas giant.” They all laugh. Dilshad is not a small man.

“Katya?” Dilshad asks. I’m startled. Why single me out? He must be checking up on our problem relationship.

Adam shrugs, and then, just as casually as can be, replies: “Well, that is different. She’s a comet. Beautiful, but only passing through.” He waves his hand in a dismissive gesture indicating me vanishing off into the distance. 

They all laugh.

In the darkness of the studio, I gasp. He could hardly have found a more poetic way to tell his most trusted confidantes that my being part of this team, of his life, is so trivial and so temporary. Everyone’s a planet, but not me. I’m not even a moon. I’m not part of this solar system at all. I’m just passing through. 

I’m reeling. I feel my world shifting under my feet like it did on Tuánjié, but horribly in the other direction. 

It hurts because it’s true. I know very well that my place on the team isn’t permanent. I have been too busy to think about it much, but I have not forgotten that eventually they won’t need me anymore. The tour will be over in less than three months. This will likely end then. I’ll go back to the embassy or I’ll get called to Moscow or maybe Seoul, or if there’s nothing for me at either of the embassies, I may go back to being a homeless travelling aide and interpreter. 

I’m not foolish enough to think he doesn’t care about me at all, but what was I thinking? Sure, we’re friends now, friends who shared something that felt very special, but I’m not one of his lifelong friends, not family, not one of the people he’ll keep close forever. I’m an idiot. He really is a fucking star, growing brighter every day. Everyone wants a piece of him. How could I possibly think he’d have room for me once I’m no longer at his side, once I’m off the team, once I move away? 

No. I will indeed pass right through. My relationship with him will come and go just like every relationship I’ve ever had. Duh. This reality check is a bucket of ice water in my face.

My chest is so tight I can hardly breathe.

Dilshad is ready to move on. “Well, let’s hear it!” he says, and heaves himself onto the sofa. They are not going away and I’m stuck in the studio listening. I can’t possibly come out on the heels of that line, not with my eyes burning like this, so I stay in the shadows, squeezing down a lump in my throat. Adam takes his chair in the middle of the array of speakers and computer screens.


	36. Ambassador is Released

Thanks to both of us working non-stop, I manage not to be alone with Adam after our painful encounter in the alley. I barely see him at all.

The lyricist is evidently a genius poet who turns the song around over the weekend. I’m given the task of translating it for subtitles as soon as they come in. I’m salty about it, and I keep pouring salt in my own wounds by spending endless hours not only trying to find the most poetic ways of expressing in six languages how much Adam wants to screw his star, but also matching the cadence of the lyrics so people can sing along in their own language. Not that anyone could sing along with what he’ll be doing. As annoyed as I am, I’m proud of my results.

Adam works around the clock in the studio for the next week. The guys get the song recorded and mastered without a minute to spare. Ambassador is released on time, less than two weeks before we leave for South America.

He performs Little Moon for the first time on a Russian TV show the day the album drops. I have to be out front, with the TV crew and the rest of our team. The music starts, slow and sinuous. He steps up to the mic stand and waits, eyes closed, standing completely still. The spell is already cast, the audience frozen in anticipation. His brushes his lips against the mic, almost like a kiss. The music pauses. He slides his hand down the mic stand, slowly. Into the silence, that first soft breath catches in his throat and then escapes. I even hear gasps from the crew. Holy crap. 

I hide my face under my hat and glasses, alternately staring at the floor and observing the Russian audience’s reaction. It is the most overtly sensual performance he has ever done, and that’s saying a lot. They are loving the music in the first verse, but then the chorus comes. They could not look more shocked watching his trembling, enraptured face as he pants and moans his way through it. This is not the boy they know and love. The monitors are playing my Russian subtitles but every saucer eye in the room is fixed on him. They don’t need to know what he’s saying. They feel it. Worse, I feel it. Dammit. I hate you, Adam.

We post the performance on YouTube that evening. Social media explodes overnight. 

Cho-Ji posts an actual link to it – not just a hashtag – with the caption “Wow.” I reply, asking what he thought of the Korean translation. Another “wow,” followed by string of heart and fire emojis, ending with pink sunglasses. Ha! Good. I don’t mind one bit if Cho-Ji thinks about me while he’s listening to this. The fact that that’s even possible still floors me. That night I have another pretty suggestive dream about him. Only he’s too tall and his eyes and hair are too dark and the sounds from Little Moon pervade the whole thing. Dammit, again. Oh well. I’m sure I’m in good company with thousands of other women tonight.

Adam’s fans are indeed having a mixed reaction, the “innocent boy” contingent suffering some serious cognitive dissonance, but there’s no question the song is getting more attention than anything else he’s done. It kicks off a flood of interest in his other music. His YouTube views spike across the board. Tens of thousands of people hear his voice and become converts. Ambassador immediately goes platinum just from sales in the East. 

As I anticipated, Little Moon is a huge hit in South and Central America. Spanish-speaking fans, who are not shy about listening to a man have sex with a microphone, spread the video everywhere they can. He was already making inroads there before this, but we are still amazed when the TV performance gets over a million hits just from that part of the world in the 36 hours after we post it. Nothing like this has happened to him before. 

Then, radio play. That’s the game changer. We start re-negotiating his appearance schedule in the cities we’ll be going to. The big late and morning shows in every country are calling. All very last minute, all a very good sign for his career. Radio play in South and Central America means the song will creep into North America as well. The team is hoping it might have some presence there by the time we get to LA.

In the meantime, the creative team dives into rehearsing for the scaled-down version of the tour. Adam has no time for appearances, so I don’t see him at all. He’ll start promoting the album in earnest on the tour. I know he wants to talk to me. He even tries to call me a couple of times, late, after rehearsals, but I don’t answer. After a few days he doesn’t try any more. He’s gotten the message that I don’t want to talk about it and he’s got plenty of other things on his mind.

I thought the sting of being called a comet would subside, but it doesn’t. I feel just as bad every time I think of it. The relationship I thought we had, my job, my whole life in Sanzharistan now feel like a fraud, and I feel like a fool for thinking I mattered more than I do. I know he got me right in my one giant insecurity and that I’m overreacting. I can’t help it. Especially because he’s right. I let myself get in too deep with this detour in my life. It’s almost August. The tour ends in October. I’m probably gone by the end of the year. It’s better for me if I pull back now. 

It’s surprisingly hard, though. Annoyingly, that feeling of tangible connection from Tuánjié is still there, strong as ever, even as I question how real our friendship is. It doesn’t make any sense. That should have disappeared first thing, but instead it’s constantly pulling me toward him while I’m trying to pull away. Even as I sulk, I feel weird and itchy and uncomfortable the more we are apart. All this is too tender to talk about, so I say nothing to anyone.


	37. On the Road Again

It’s finally time to start the next leg of the tour. We begin in the South on August 7 and work our way North. Buenos Aires, Argentina; Sau Paulo and Rio, Brazil; Lima, Peru; Bogotá , Columbia; and Mexico City, Mexico. 

We will be traveling for just over a month. When they planned this last year, they had no idea that Adam would be so popular there now. He could have filled arenas in every city. But traveling so long is insanely expensive, so they planned a scaled down version of the show, in more manageable venues, concert halls with 6-7,000 seats. The video components will be whatever the venue can manage. No pyrotechnics aside from Adam’s own performance. Even though it would have been great to have the dancers, they cost too much. So it will be about 15 of us – musicians, key crew, and a skeleton staff including me.

Then we will end with a final date in L.A. With the extra money provided by the United States, everyone will fly over for a giant show at the Hollywood Bowl with all the bells and whistles and performances from some other Sanzhar acts. The United States is the holy grail for Adam. And the Asian Culture Festival will bring a lot of extra attention to his show. Six weeks out there are still tickets for this one, but not that many.

As I fill out my travel paperwork, I have to give an emergency contact. I haven’t had to do this since I left the embassy. What now? Dilshad is technically my boss, but do I really want him getting calls if something happens to me? No. Adam? He’s not really my boss, he’s obviously not family, are we close enough for that? A month ago I would have said yes without hesitation. Now that just seems dumb. I imagine him getting a call backstage somewhere a year from now, being told that his former interpreter is in the hospital, him asking what he’s supposed to do about it. Nope. Plus, I can’t give out his number anyway. Amelia it is. 

Pointless, since if our plane goes down, we’ll all be on it, but I have to put somebody and she’s my closest friend. I both feel happy to have a friend like that and sad that my roots are so shallow that my emergency contact is somebody I’ve only known a year. Well, that’s what you get when you’re always passing through.

By the time we leave, Little Moon is Adam’s first bona fide global hit. He’s in serious demand. We will be busy in the few days we have between shows. A day of travel, a day for rehearsal, a day or two in between for radio and talk show appearances, interviews and photography for local press in each location. Our time in LA is shaping up to look like his schedule in Seoul. It’s time to get serious about meeting American music industry execs, and that’s where they are. We schedule some meetings with some American artists to talk about possible collaborations. I’m increasingly useful for these things. 

And so it begins. Adam absolutely kills it in Buenos Aires, Sau Paulo, and Rio. His endless interviews and appearances win over countless new admirers, and his concerts are fantastic. His voice is in peak form. South American audiences are as passionate as they come, and he gives as good as he gets. He performs with no inhibition whatsoever. He leaves the audiences stunned at every venue. Honestly, his vocals shine even more in concert halls without the distractions of the giant stadium shows. 

I watch some of it from the wings. My tolerance is increasing, but a lot is still difficult to watch. During Little Moon, he’s essentially kissing the microphone, caressing the mic stand like a lover, touching his own body, making those breathy sounds in the silent musical pauses, eyes closed, lips trembling, making those faces. The combined effect of his performance and the dagger in my chest is too much to take. I can only steal glances at the backstage monitors. With a giant venue full of devoted fans rather than a studio audience, he’s even more audacious. I don’t know from what depths he brings this. He could get honestly get arrested for this in some countries. 

The song quickly becomes number one on the Latin charts. Live on Love is charting too, riding Little Moon’s coat tails in new markets even though it’s in Russian. The sad idea that love isn’t enough seems to resonate everywhere. He performs it like soul in hell, seemingly in agony over the lover he is losing. In Buenos Aires he ends the song on his knees, his face buried in his hands, possibly in tears. The fans are swept away. 

In private, though, Adam’s off his game. When the cameras are off, happy relaxed Adam is nowhere to be seen, replaced by stressed, brooding Adam. The frenzied schedule of travel, concerts, and appearances, as well as being on the cusp of true mega stardom in a new part of the world, are putting him under intense pressure. He and his father are clearly at odds over something too. I’ve heard raised voices a couple of times, something I’ve only heard once before. I don’t know what it is, but this sure doesn’t seem like the right time for Ismail to be giving his son a hard time.

The strain in our relationship isn’t helping either, I’m sure. We are so busy in South America that we are always surrounded by people coming and going. They have to come to us; we don’t have time to travel to them. That means that even though I am with him all the time, I am able to avoid being alone with him for any awkward conversations. 

I still do my honest best to help him navigate these foreign lands and charm the pants off everyone. Afterward, though, I just can’t bring myself to talk with him like before. I try to look busy or talk with other people or jam my earbuds in the moment I’m not needed, even while I feel his eyes on me. He always looks like he’s dying to say something, but he doesn’t. I’m really trying to act natural, but it’s just so tense and uncomfortable.

Adam’s mood casts a pall over the whole team. They all walk on eggshells around him. Nobody seems to be having much fun, even though they have all sorts of time to sightsee and enjoy themselves. Adam doesn’t socialize with the team at all even in his limited free time, which makes everyone feel nervous. 

He turns 27 on August 22. Birthday wishes pour in from around the world. Between his birthday and his success, this should be a huge celebration. But even though we all gather for it, he is subdued. He doesn’t even touch his birthday cake. This is the kind of special occasion where everyone gratefully receives his hugs and kisses. None for me, thanks. I manage to stay far away from him as he works his way around the room, the same way I have been doing after the concerts. I keep my face neutral and my body well out of range. It’s embarrassing, I’m sure he notices that I don’t want him touching me. I even see Ismail’s eyes follow me as I work to avoid his son. 

I hope that it isn’t obvious to most people that our relationship has changed so drastically. Of course Rashid knows what happened because he was there, and I’m sure he is Adam’s confidant in this. It doesn’t seem like Rashid told Amelia, though, because she keeps pestering me about it.

“What is going on with you two?”

“Nothing.”

“Did you have a fight?”

“Not at all.”

“What then? Why aren’t you talking?”

“We talk all the time. We spend every day together.”

“You know what I mean. It’s not the same. And why don’t either of you come out with us anymore?”

How do I answer that? I’m pulling away from this entire life. That doesn’t feel like the kind of thing I can say. I feel my back up against the wall and I snap at her. “You know, unlike yours, my job requires me to work all day, every day, then more at night getting ready for the next day. I’m tired. I’m sorry if I don’t have the energy to play when everybody else does. You’ll have to ask him what his problem is.”

I feel bad, but she doesn’t ask again.

At least it makes it easy to keep our distance for the cameras. In Sau Paolo, I’m standing with a TV crew watching Adam and a journalist get wired for an interview. My face is the stone mask I have been wearing for weeks now. A young woman is right next to me, staring at me a little rudely. I finally turn my head to her. 

“I guess you two really aren’t a couple.”

Anyone thinking that we’re together now seems completely laughable. But I don’t laugh. “Mr. Zapatenov’s personal life is off limits to the media,” I recite. I turn back away without waiting for a reply or changing my expression. It’s like that.

“Then you must be dating Song Cho-Ji after all.”

I turn back, now looking at her in astonishment. “I’m sure Song Cho-Ji’s personal life is off limits too,” I snap. “And so is mine.” I have to walk away, I’m so shocked. I see Adam watching me. My headset was on. I don’t know if he heard that woman, but he definitely heard me.

Later that night I receive a text from an unknown number: “Contact will be at Z-Rock.”

Whoa. Z-Rock is a radio station in Lima where Adam will be giving an interview in a few days. The embassy requested that I keep them updated on my itinerary. This can only be from them. This means they have an assignment for me and they are sending an agent to me in the field to tell me what it is. Lima has an American embassy. They don’t even want me to go there. This is the most spy-like thing to happen to me yet. Good. Spying may not be my real career, but working for the Foreign Service is, and I don’t want them to forget me. 

As it happens, the first time Adam and I are alone since our confrontation is on the drive to Z-Rock. There was no way to avoid it. He’s going to perform live in their studio, I’m needed, and nobody else is going. Lima is the fourth stop on this leg, more than a month since that day. I can feel him as we walk to the car. I know he’s going to bring it up as soon as I’m trapped. The door barely closes behind him before he starts.

“Katya, please, talk to me.” 

Shit, here we go. I want to pretend I don’t know what he means, but we’d both know that was a lie. I don’t want to hear what he has to say. I don’t want to react to it. I don’t want him to see me react to it. I brace myself and look at him.

“I know that I upset you.”

“Can we please not do this?”

“No, I need to do this. Listen to me.”

Nope. I head him off at the pass. “Adam, really. Don’t worry about it. What you said was true, OK? This is your world, not mine. I’ll be long gone a year from now. Five years from now you’ll barely remember me.” 

I didn’t mean for that to be another slap in the face but I can see that it was. I feel petty. And guilty. This tour is so important. He needs to be 100% on his game and I am bringing him down with my sulking. I need to play nice.

“I mean, it wasn’t exactly nice to hear you say it so casually, but it’s not like you did anything wrong.”

“I did do something wrong. I lied. I betrayed you. I betrayed God. I deserve to be punished. But Katya, you must know that you are not just passing through my life. You cannot believe that.” 

Great, he knows exactly how I feel. How humiliating. “Sure I can, it’s the story of my life.” Ugh, bitter is not a good look on me.

“Not with me.” He looks so earnest.

I huff. Fine, I’ll listen. “OK, then why did you say that?”

He seems to be struggling with what to say. “It was not just fans who had to believe there was nothing between us. Everyone had to believe it.” 

“Don’t they?”

“I don’t know what they believe. I said what I thought they needed to hear.”

“You told them a lie to get them to believe the truth? Why would you do that?”

“So they would let us go back to how we were before.”

“We can never go back to how we were before. That whole mess would just start over.”

“Not in public, I know. We were careless. I was careless. But I want our friendship back. Please. Can you forgive me?” He means it.

This is a pretty good explanation. He was definitely upset about that fan debacle disrupting his private life, and now it’s even more disrupted. Regardless, whether he thinks of me as a comet or not, all this doesn’t change the fact that in reality, he was probably right.

I sigh. It isn’t his fault that the truth hurts. 

“There’s nothing to forgive. In a way, you did me a favor. It was a good reminder that I shouldn’t get too attached. This chapter closes when I move on.” I shrug. “That’s life in the Foreign Service. Don’t feel guilty.”

“Don’t move on.”

I make a wry expression. “As exciting as all this is, I didn’t bust my ass getting two PhDs so I could spend my life helping you with your career. I have my own career. If Moscow doesn’t pan out, then Seoul. This was never supposed to be permanent.”

He’s shaking his head. “You do not understand. Just give me seven weeks.”

“Of course, I’m not leaving before the tour’s over. You know that was the deal. I’m just remembering that my future is elsewhere.” I reach over and pat him on the knee. “Look, I know I’ve been sulking. I’ll try to stop. OK?”

“No, this is not OK. This is worse.” 

“Well, it’s the best I can do.” I end the conversation by put my earbuds in.

I spend the rest of the ride lost in thought. If I’m to believe him, he told his friends I didn’t mean anything to him essentially because he missed me. That’s a lot nicer than the alternative, but it doesn’t really change anything. I have allowed myself to get too invested in this detour in my life. 

A year from now this will all just be this crazy thing I did that time. My friends will be these nice people I used to know. We’ll stay in touch for a bit, then we’ll all get busy, then time will pass without being in touch, then it will be too awkward to reach out, then it will be over. That’s how these things go. A few years down the road I’ll be with new people and he’ll be on TV getting a Grammy or an Oscar and I’ll say “I was actually his interpreter for a while. I went on tour with him and everything,” and they’ll exclaim and I’ll get to tell them stories about it. 

If I could just not care this would all be so much easier. But I can’t seem to sever this tie with him no matter how much I saw at it. It nags at me all the time, trying to pull me back when I need to move on. Annoying. I feel it right now as we get out of the car, I feel him with me like I did in the van after Tuánjié, no matter how much I don’t want to. 

At least the interview goes well. He sits at a table in the sound booth with the radio host and some staff. I stand off to the side. She questions him in Spanish, which I interpret for him, and he answers in English, which she and most of her audience can understand. 

She doesn’t go for the usual low-hanging fruit like how long he has been singing, what his range is, that sort of thing.

“Everyone is amazed by your voice, but what really captures your fans is the emotion you convey on stage. How much of that is performance and how much is really what you feel?”

“I really feel everything I show on stage. Music is emotion. When I’m on stage, the whole point is to take the audience on an emotional journey. My voice, the songs I sing, the stage elements, they are all tools to evoke emotion. Otherwise singing is just a technical exercise. If the audience responds, I can feel and express even more. The performance itself, what I’m doing, how I look, I’m conscious of it but I don’t really think about it. I don’t plan it out. I just think about expressing what I feel, and singing the very best I can. Whatever comes naturally is what the audience sees.”

“How are you able to access that range of emotion on demand?”

“That’s the job. I only sing songs that I connect with emotionally. I can’t always sing every song though. Sometimes I have to drop one, maybe even in the middle of a set if I’m not feeling it. The audience would know if I tried to fake it.”

“What can’t you sing right now?”

He hesitates. That’s my cue. I whisper to him. “Come to the show.”

“If you come to my concert, you’ll leave with a pretty good idea of how I’m feeling right now.”

He glances over at me. These last couple of shows have certainly been impassioned, but his happiest songs have not been on the set list. 

“And yet off stage, you are known for being so calm, even dignified. None of the emotional outbursts or drama we tend to see from younger artists. Why are you so restrained off stage?”

“Well, I can’t live with my emotions on the surface like that off stage. I have to keep a lot inside, like anyone else, just to get by.”

“Then when are you the most real?”

“I hope I’m always real. But I’m most exposed right when I get off stage and join my friends and family. I have no filters then. Anything you see then is as real as it gets.”

“Isn’t it hard to show your innermost self to so many people, whether it’s onstage or backstage?” He and I both know what she really means, of course. He shows a lot on stage. “Most men don’t share all their passion with their friends and family, much less strangers. They save that for, say, their girlfriend?”

I end my translation with “She’s just fishing now.” I think he’ll give his stock privacy response, but he doesn’t. He looks down at the table, silently. Everyone waits. After a long time, he answers, slowly. Although he sings about love all day long, he rarely talks about it. I have forgotten how good he is.

“I don’t keep anything from my family. My friends, yes, of course, certain things are private. I won’t say whether I have a girlfriend. But I will say that every man wants to share his whole heart with the woman he loves. Everything he feels. Everything he is. Otherwise he can’t possibly hope that she’ll truly love him back. I’m no different. The woman I love will have me completely. Without reservation. If anything, it’ll be too much for her. She may drown in love but she’ll never thirst for it.”

A swooning sigh passes through the room. That’s the perfect place to end it, so I take on my role as handler. “Thanks everyone, that’s all.” We all stand while I disconnect him from all his wires. I decide to demonstrate my lack of sulking by giving him a little praise.

“You really are good. Every woman in the world will be in love with you after that.” 

“I only need one.”

“I’m sure your mom is lining up more prospects as we speak.”

Afterwards, I step away while he goes into the studio to sing live. I’m so focused on our conversation and his interview that I almost forget about the contact the embassy is sending. I finally notice an older, balding, Peruvian man giving me a hard look. He catches my eye and cocks his head toward the door. I follow him out. He suggests we get a coffee from the bar in the lobby. We sit at a bistro table in plain sight. He lays his briefcase on the table between us.

We fake some pleasant chit-chat about the weather and Lima tourist attractions, then he gives me my instructions. This is at least Spy 201 stuff. It’s very serious but a part of me wants to laugh.

“Your target is a teenage girl who will be coming to the concert in Bogotá. Her photo is in the envelope I’m going to leave you. At some point she will come backstage to meet Adam. You’ll need to stay close to him and keep your eyes open for her. The envelope also contains a smart watch with an extra button on the side. Your job is to get that watch within a foot of her cell phone, press that button, and stay in range for at least 10 seconds. The closer you get the better. Best would be if you managed to actually hold her phone. Offer to take her picture with it. That’s all there is to it.”

“What does pressing the button do?”

“It uploads an app to any phone in range.”

“What does the app do?”

“It saves lives.”

“Really? That’s all you can tell me?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Is there anything dangerous about this assignment?”

“She’ll have her bodyguard with her. It would be best if he didn’t notice anything. Even if he does, in that setting, all he should be able to do is get her out of there. If things go south and there is a confrontation, don’t let him take the watch. Do you think you can ensure that?”

I think about the scene backstage. I’ll be surrounded by friends and coworkers. Adam will be right there. We’ll have security of our own. If her bodyguard gets aggressive with me, every single person will come to my defense. Nobody will let him take my watch, no matter what he says or does, short of putting a gun to someone’s head.

“Yes, I can ensure that. Who’s the girl?”

“The daughter of someone we are very interested in. I can’t tell you anything else.”

“What do I do with the watch after?”

“It’s a real watch. Just pop out the extra button and keep it. But destroy the photo after you look at it.”

“What happens if I fail?”

“We’ll have to try another way. In the meantime, lives will probably be lost. Don’t fail.”

Holy shit. “I’ll do my best.”

“I’ll go first.” He gets up, takes his briefcase, and heads out. A magazine had been hidden under the briefcase and is now on the table. I pick it up and flip through it, pretending to read. Sure enough, an envelope is tucked between the pages. I drop the magazine in my bag and head back to the studio.


	38. The Bogotá Job

I have been trying to drop the icy sulking. Things are a little better, but it still isn’t the same. I’m too aware of how transient all this is, and I find myself thinking more about life after this. I keep myself just a bit apart from everyone. I don’t really mean to. I’m just holding back. Even though I’m no longer actively avoiding being alone with Adam or talking with him, I’m still a lot more subdued. 

The Bogotá concert is tomorrow. I keep thinking back to our conversation after the party at Chernov Chernov’s house. I promised Adam I wouldn’t deceive him again. This job is going to go down right in front of him. My government is absolutely using him to get me access to this girl, whoever she is. I have to let him know. He’s busy rehearsing today. I know he’ll stay in tonight, have dinner in his room, so I wait until I’m sure he’s done with all that.

At about nine I do something I have never done. I go to his hotel room and knock on his door.

I wave at the peephole when I see it go dark. He opens the door. He’s in silky-looking black pajamas. Not what I would have expected. The TV is off, music playing, lights low. He’s trying to relax. Well, I’m about to ruin that.

“Hi.” I say.

“Katya.” He looks surprised but happy to see me.

“I need to tell you something. And ask a favor. Can I come in?”

He stands aside and I go in. He moves some clothes off a chair and gestures for me to sit. “What is it?”

This feels awkward, so I sit down and get right to it. “I heard from the embassy. I have a little job tomorrow.” He sits on the bed. He no longer looks happy. I go on. “A girl is going to come backstage tomorrow night to meet you. I need to get near her cell phone. Ideally, I should hold it. I’m hoping she’ll let me use it to take your picture together.”

“What are you doing to her phone?”

“I have to upload something to it. They gave me a special watch with a button I have to press. Very James Bond.” I pause. He’s not going to like this part. “She’ll have a bodyguard, though, and I need him not to be suspicious.”

He’s incredulous. “Are you kidding me? Why does she have a bodyguard? Who is she?”

“I don’t know. The daughter of someone important.”

“Katya! This is a dangerous place. There are dangerous people here. What happens if you get caught?”

“Really, don’t worry. This is a lot safer than what I did in Seoul. Even if I’m caught, her bodyguard isn’t going to shoot me in front of 100 people in your green room.” I’m trying to make light. He isn’t buying it.

He shakes his head in consternation. “No. I cannot let you do this. This is too risky.” 

“Well hello, Mr. Bossypants. That’s not your call. I have to. They told me people will die if I fail.”

He puts his face in his hands. “Fuck!” Well, there’s another first. I’ve never heard him say that before. “Do you have any idea what you are doing to me?”

“I’m really sorry. I don’t want to stress you out. I’m only telling you because I promised I wouldn’t deceive you again. This really should be easy. The only thing is the bodyguard can’t get the watch. So that’s the favor. If anything gets weird and he demands it, I may need you to back me up.”

“Oh, he will not get near you. Or your watch.” I know he means it. As sexist as it is, I have come to appreciate how Sanzhar men don’t hesitate to put themselves bodily between a woman and man whose intentions they don’t like. Adam has done this with me more than once. He shakes his head again. “I hate this.”

“I would have said no if lives weren’t on the line. I don’t want to put you in this position.”

That sets him off. “I do not care what position that you are putting me in! I hate the position that you are putting yourself in! Why are you doing this kind of work? You told me that you want to be a diplomat!”

“I know, and I do. They’re just taking advantage of the opportunity since I’m here.”

“When is one of these opportunities going to get you killed? Do you know how much I worry about that?”

“That’s not going to happen. Besides, once I stop working for you, there won’t be any more opportunities. They won’t be able to use either of us this way anymore.”

“Or you could just work with me and say no to them.”

“Again, lives on the line. But don’t worry, when I get back to my real career everything will be very boring and very safe.”

“You mean the same boring, safe career your parents had?”

Oh, ouch. I give him a hard look. “That’s a low blow.”

“I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

“I know.” I sigh. “Please, just be yourself when she shows up. You don’t have to do anything. If I seem weird, just pretend not to notice.”

“No. I’m going to help you. I will keep their attention and ask you to take the picture. They will not suspect me.”

“You really don’t have to do that.”

“Yes, I do.” His jaw is set. He’s staring me down in that way he has. Once he decides something, he doesn’t change his mind. And truthfully, I’m grateful. I’m not going to argue.

“OK. Thank you, then. I don’t know when she’ll come backstage, so I’m going to have to stay right beside you until she does.”

“That will be a nice change,” he replies tartly.

Awkward. I stand up. “Well, thanks again. And I’m sorry again. Get a good night’s rest.”

“You do not have to leave. I will not sleep any time soon after this. Stay a while.”

I’m not about to just hang out in his hotel room. This is more than we’ve talked in over a month already. I’m anxious to leave. 

Plus, um. I haven’t thought about this in a while, and he’s not putting any vibes out there, but he looks pretty scrumptious sitting on the bed in those silk pajamas. Low lights, soft music.... Yeah, this is why we never go to each other’s hotel rooms. I need to get out of here. I decide to be light about it. “I can’t stay in here; what would people think?”

“That we are friends again?” 

“We are friends.” He raises a skeptical eyebrow. I sigh again. “I’m really trying to move on, OK?”

“I wish you would stop talking about moving on.”

“I mean I’m trying to get over it. But I do need to leave. I’ll see you tomorrow. Really, try to sleep well.” 

I hesitate. This seems like a good moment, and I don’t know when we’ll be alone again. I step toward him and put an awkward hand on his shoulder. “Adam. You’re killing it here. You should be having the time of your life. Try to cheer up.” I put my hand on his head and tousle his hair, the way he sometimes does to me. “I’m really proud of you.” OK, that’s all I can manage.

I make a beeline to the door and back out, waving at him, before he can say anything else.

His hair was soft, silky like his pajamas. It has been years since I touched a man like that, and that wasn’t even anything special. But I am again reminded that I have no-one of my own. I sure hope I can start a real life in Moscow.

At the concert, it goes exactly as planned. She comes backstage after the show. Adam’s energy and charisma are so overpowering that even the bodyguard can’t take his eyes of him. The girl hands Adam her phone for a selfie and the guard doesn’t even glance at me when Adam tells me to take the picture and hands the phone off. 

I have time to spare. I press the button on my watch, take her phone, and snap half a dozen poses, then hand it back. They say thank you to Adam and he moves on to the next person. The girl scrolls through the pictures delightedly. She’ll never even remember I was there. Only after they leave does Adam meet my eyes.

Three days later, in Mexico City, Adam and I are preparing for a talk show appearance at a TV station. The news is on in the green room. In a joint operation, the American military and Colombian national police have located and stormed the secret compound of a brutal and murderous Colombian drug cartel leader, capturing him and some of his top lieutenants. Helicopter footage of family members being led to police vans, coats hiding their faces. 

We’re certain he’s the father of the girl, and that whatever I put on her phone led them to him. We did something really important. Adam walks over to me and holds up his hand for a high-five, which I give him. It’s the nicest moment we’ve had since before that day in the studio, but the whole thing just reminds me that my life in the Foreign Service is my real life and my life with Adam’s team is not. I can’t let myself fall back into that trap.


	39. Los Angeles

Finally we are in LA. Although it was a nail-biter, he has indeed sold out the Hollywood Bowl, 17,500 seats and the best acoustics in Los Angeles. Perfect for one of the world’s best voices to perform on a California summer night. The whole team has come in for this, the dancers, the technical crew, Dilshad, Adam’s extended family.

All of Asia has descended upon LA for the 10-day Asian Culture Festival. Ballet, traditional dance, theater, every kind of music, performing and visual arts, museum exhibitions. Every venue in the greater Los Angeles area is booked solid.

The main venue has a huge assortment of acts interspersed with speeches from dignitaries from all the involved countries. The performers all tend to congregate there in their off hours, so I get to enjoy some of the speeches that everyone else uses for bathroom breaks. Juliet Botticelli is giving the address on behalf of the United States. Well of course she is; this whole Festival was her baby. 

I find her afterward and say hello. It turns out that she has become quite the fan of Adam since we last saw each other. She already knows that I left the embassy and work for him now. It’s a little awkward. She knows better than to fangirl and ask me inappropriate questions, but I can tell she wants to. Still, I do her the favor of an introduction. 

I tell Adam how she was responsible for his participation in the Festival and for getting him the Hollywood bowl, as well as this whole detour in my career. Juliet’s no fool, she can sense the tension between us. There is another awkward moment until he thanks her profusely for her support – a sold-out concert in America is any artist’s dream – and leaves her swooning and dizzy. 

Adam is booked round the clock, the usual media appearances, but now he has caught the attention of lots of American music industry people. Everyone wants to meet him. He will have more offers than he knows what to do with. It’s a rare moment where he has a lot of bargaining power. He’ll have to be very careful about what he agrees to. These industry folks flock like seagulls around the star performers at the main venue, so of course Adam and I spend as much time there as we can, including the evening before his own concert. Normally he’d be resting up after the morning’s rehearsal, but LA is too important to miss any opportunity to network. 

We are deep in the backstage warren as he accepts compliments from a songwriter/producer duo that is interested in working with him. Everyone speaks English and I don’t know them, so I have nothing to offer. I push through the packed crowd and get out of the way.

Suddenly a pair of hands cover my eyes and a warm, taut body presses firmly against my back. I recognize the heady scent of expensive cologne and pheromones. Breath on my ear. My hairs stand on end. 

“Guess who?” Korean, whispered right into my ear.

Well, well, well. 

“I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do.”

He uncovers my eyes and steps around. Cho-Ji is channeling a seductive smile at me. He’s all star persona, the executive from our last encounter nowhere in sight. I distinctly remember that the last time he was looking at me like this, he was rubbing his hand down his mostly bare torso. That warm body that was just pressed against mine has got abs to die for. 

This time I remember to turn off my headset. 

“Hey!” I exclaim, “Nice to see you!”

“You too! I wondered where you were hiding. You never messaged me.”

I thought about it a time or two but if I’m honest, I didn’t want to set myself up for more rejection. “I’m guess I’m not the kind of girl who goes chasing after celebrities.”

“No, you make us chase you.” His eyes roam unabashedly. “You look nice.” I’m done with plain these days, and it is August in Southern California, so I’m showing skin, my hair down, my face uncovered.

“Why thank you!” Tonight he’s here to be seen, casual and more masculine for American eyes. “You look... ridiculous.” I mean it in the sense of ridiculously hot, ridiculously handsome, ridiculously perfect, all of which are true. We both laugh. He seems cheerful. “Are you excited for the tour? How did LA treat you?” 

N-POWER also timed its LA tour dates to be here for the Asian Culture Festival. They just played two nights in Dodger Stadium, 56,000 seats each night. Six and a half times Adam’s LA audience, and they doubtless could have sold out a third night. I wonder what an all-access pass to that show would be like. I can’t even imagine.

“LA was fantastic. Our fans are the best in the world.”

“I’m so glad. I wanted to go but I couldn’t get tickets.” Both of their shows sold out within minutes. Good seats resold for over $1,000. Special seats for over $5,000. I considered it seriously. My father came from money, and when I turned 21, I came into quite a nice inheritance, essentially none of which I have spent. But I just couldn’t make myself do it. 

“What? Why didn’t you tell me? I could have gotten you great seats. Right up front.” He’s giving me a wicked look. I think he’s remembering that moment as well.

“Ah, well. Maybe next time.”

“Any show you want. Anywhere in the world. Just tell me. How is Adam’s tour going?”

“Great. Tomorrow’s the last show of this leg. I think he has pretty much conquered South America.”

“I’m sure. I love Little Moon. It’s so sexy. That chorus. Wow.” He’s raising his eyebrows, like everyone else does at that. “Spanish and English was a smart choice.”

“Well thank you, that was my suggestion.”

“Of course it was, you smart girl.” He has a thing for the smart ones.

I smile and bat my lashes, acting silly.

“So ... you two have been getting a lot of attention. Everyone thinks you’re a couple now.”

“Oh, ugh, yes. That was a hot mess. Not everyone thinks so. There are two distinct camps.”

“Right, the other camp thinks you and I have something going on.” I’m shocked. The rumors about me in Adam’s fandom were a major event; in Cho-Ji’s, they were surely nothing but a tiny blip. I can’t believe that filtered up to him. He gives me another teasing smile. Wow, he is really working it today. This is some grade A flirtation going on. I feel a little breathless from it. “Are you really not dating him?

“No way. We just work together.” I feel like I can be candid. “In fact, we had a bit of a falling out. It’s a little better now but no, I am definitely not dating him.”

He takes a beat, appraising me. “Then there’s nothing stopping you from having a drink with me later tonight?”

All of my brain activity stops functioning while I try to comprehend the fact that Song Fucking Cho-Ji is asking me out on what cannot be anything other than an actual date. I try to respond with a modicum of composure. I’m sure I fail, but I’m sure he understands. You really can get used to anything as a celebrity.

“There is absolutely nothing stopping me from having a drink with you later. I would love to.” His smile broadens at my acceptance. “But how can you even do that? Aren’t you guys barred from that sort of thing?”

He rolls his eyes. “Do you really think all nine of us have gone six years with no social life? We have our ways. We have a private room at a club tonight. I’ll put you on the list. I’ll be there by nine. Meet me there when you’re done here.” He gives me the name of the club.

“OK. Sounds fun. I’ll see you then.” 

He walks backwards for a moment smiling at me, then turns and heads off. A flurry of staff follows in his wake. I hadn’t noticed them. In that interaction, I was one of the glitterati and they were invisible.

Actually, there is one little thing stopping me from going out with Cho-Ji. Adam and Ismail are going to an intimate gathering with some producers at eight and I’m supposed to go with them. But he really doesn’t need me. Adam’s English has done nothing but improve over the last six months. He can interpret for his dad. As the time draws near, I tell him.

“Hey, I’m going to take off when you go to the party tonight.”

“Why? I want you to come.”

“I have plans later. I need to go to the hotel to get ready.”

“What plans?”

I feel uncomfortable telling him. I’ve been working on gradually getting back to where we were, or at least closer to that, so canceling plans with him at the last minute feels a little like a betrayal. “I am meeting someone for a drink.”

He doesn’t seem to understand. “You don’t drink.”

I make an exasperated sound. “I have a date.”

“What?” He’s obviously floored that I have somehow successfully landed a date in Los Angeles of all places. “With who?”

This is definitely awkward. Cho-Ji is 100 times the star level of Adam. The idea of his interpreter, assistant, friend, whatever, ditching him to spend the evening with someone who totally eclipses him as a celebrity can’t feel great. 

“Um. Cho-Ji.” 

His mouth drops open. He’s looking at me with such unrestrained surprise that I might as well have turned into a rabbit right in front of him.

“You barely know him.”

“That’s why people go on dates.”

He is shaking his head in apparent disbelief.

“You don’t know what he’s like.” He’s practically sputtering. “You cannot just go off alone in a foreign country with a man you do not know.”

Ah, of course. This is Adam, and he has views about my virtue. I think of Cho-Ji’s body pressed against my back. I hadn’t considered my virtue, but you know what? I don’t think I’d mind at all if Cho-Ji gave my virtue a bit of a tarnishing. My virtue is positively in need of it.

“This is my country. We’re meeting at a nightclub. We won’t be alone.”

“No.”

Now I’m the one who’s shocked.

“No? Excuse me? You do know I’m a grown woman, right?”

“So you are going to spend the night making out with a stranger?” His voice is raised.

What the hell? Now I’m mad. “Maybe I will. Maybe I’ll do more than that. It’s none of your business.”

He’s staring me down, lips clamped shut, breathing hard through his nose. I’ve never seen quite this look on his face before. “Katya. Do not do this.”

“I’m not asking your permission. I’m just telling you that I’m leaving.” The nerve, really. I turn on my heel and storm off.


	40. A Date with Cho-Ji

Not wanting to seem too eager, I arrive at the club at 10:00. The nightclub is in a row of the most upscale nightclubs in LA. It’s only a few minutes from our hotel by cab, so I had plenty of time even after running back to the hotel and finding a dress to borrow from one of the more daring stylists. As we went through the options, her roommate walked up to me with lipstick in one hand, a curling iron in the other, and a raised eyebrow. I let them get me fixed up for the night of my life. Clubbing in LA. Way outside my comfort zone.

There are half a dozen of these nightclubs on this block alone, all the types with limos out front, velvet ropes, lines down the block, and doormen whose job is to keep the riffraff out. Each of the clubs is designed to make a unique style statement, but they all reek of exclusivity. This is for movie stars and millionaires. And tonight, I’m a guest. 

After I get out of the cab, I take a moment to savor it. The summer heat; the smell of LA, a mix of asphalt and hot dogs and Encens Eau de Parfum; the sounds of American accents all around me. No matter how intercontinental you are, being in your own country makes you relax in a way that you can’t anywhere else. I’m reminded of my college days, although that girl would never, not in a million years, have recognized me now, standing here, in heels and a strappy gold mini-dress, a sparkly clutch instead of my grey canvas tote. No way to wear a bra with this dress. I’ve never looked sexier in my life.

I feel a bit nervous as I approach the doorman, who is observing me with a look of utter boredom. I have to trust that Cho-Ji is here and put me on the list. “Kate Connor,” I say. He checks his tablet and nods. “Go to the elevator in the back, past the second bar.” He unhooks the rope and I pass through. Dozens of waiting would-be patrons eye me with unrestrained envy.

I have to give my name again to a Korean man guarding an elevator discretely tucked in a back corner. I would never have noticed it was even there had I not been directed to it. He holds a tablet out to me and tells me I have to sign. It’s a non-disclosure agreement. I am forbidden to discuss anything that I see, hear, or do while in the company of any of the band members tonight. Violation of this agreement will result in damage to the members and their management company in the amount of no less than one million dollars, which I unreservedly agree to pay and cannot appeal to any court of law in any country. OK, so that’s how they do it. 

“No photography,” he reiterates, and then he says my name into a microphone on his lapel. In a minute or so, the elevator opens. It’s dimly lit and utterly slick, like the rest of the club. Cho-Ji is waiting for me, still with that wonderful smile. I can’t believe it. His reaction to my date-night look is very gratifying. I step in and receive a quick hug and kiss on the cheek. I’m pleased that it wasn’t quite as quick as it could have been. I can feel how incredibly athletic he is under his silky shirt. His hand touching my waist through the thin fabric of my dress gives me a thrill. He still has that wonderful smell, his cologne and his own scent evoking sunshine and desire. I can now officially never wash again.

Upstairs, the “private room” is a smaller scale version of the rest of the nightclub. A glass wall overlooks the main club below. I realize I’m looking through the other side of a wall of mirrors that I saw on the way in. It’s quiet enough to talk without screaming and roomy enough to actually move through the crowd. Waitstaff are carrying trays of hors d’oeuvres and pouring bottomless drinks from the kinds of bottles that are usually in locked cabinets. Cho-Ji leads me to a small table at a long booth where we can sit next to each other and talk and watch the goings on. 

The other people in the room include members of the band, privileged members of their entourage, their management, and many other guests. I recognize two of the members with other women dressed, like me, for the occasion. Their leader, who was in the VIP lounge in Seoul, acknowledges me with a friendly wave of recognition, like I belong here. How surreal. Three others are standing together, talking. 

The oldest member is sitting with an ordinary looking Korean woman who is decidedly not dressed for a nightclub, in jeans, sneakers, and a yellow sweatshirt with a teddy bear or something similarly childish on it. A big, ugly, practical bag much like my own is hanging off the back of her chair. They are busily eating and only say a few words to each other, interspersed with occasional nods. She has a smear of something on her face, and one of the world’s most handsome men wipes it off with his napkin, without thinking, and then keeps eating. She smiles and kisses his cheek. They are obviously 100% married. He has a secret wife. No wonder I had to sign an NDA.

We spend an hour catching up. It tell him about South America. He knows that drill way better than I do. He tells me about their insane schedule now that their own tour is underway. Dilshad is more merciful with Adam’s schedule than I thought. Conversation flows quickly and easily. My phone buzzes. It’s a text, from Adam. He must be back from his party now. His concert is tomorrow. He should be asleep. “Are you back?” It’s only 11:00, of course I’m not back, Dad. I don’t respond. 

About ten minutes later, another one. “Where are you?”

I smile at Cho-Ji and put my phone back down, face down.

“Is that your boyfriend?”

“Please.” I roll my eyes.

We have a lovely time, talking, having snacks. People stop by the table and say hello to us, congratulate him on his performance at the last two shows, wish him well on the tour. Some of them, staff and band members, even seem to know who I am. His signals are subtle, but nobody lingers long. Cho-Ji nurses a drink poured from a bottle that is probably carved out of a solid diamond. When I order my favorite, pineapple and grapefruit juice with a splash of soda, he makes no comment or effort to change my mind. He’s a gentleman.

At about 12:30 my phone buzzes again. It’s Amelia. “Are you there?” I ignore it. She wouldn’t be texting me if she knew where I was right now. A few minutes later, it buzzes again. I don’t look. I drop my phone in my clutch and blink pointedly at Cho-Ji. I’m not checking texts when I am on a date with Cho-Ji. 

I am having the best date I can even imagine anyone having. I will be forever ruined after this. I feel beautiful, sexy, special. Cho-Ji has that charismatic way of making me feel like I’m the only woman in the world. He’s very easy to talk to. We both have interesting lives and plenty to talk about. He’s still in a great mood, happy after his two successful concerts. He has nothing to criticize himself for tonight; they went perfectly.

Those twinkly eyes drift over my face and body just enough to make me feel appreciated without being disrespected. He keeps his hands to himself except for a quick turn around the dance floor that initially terrifies me. I’ve been taught to dance, of course, but he’s exceptionally skilled even for a professional dancer. However, a real dancer knows how to make his partner comfortable, and in a few moments, I feel like Cinderella at the ball. I am regrettably forced to touch his hands and shoulders and back for a few minutes, my braless bosom occasionally grazing up against his chest. I am using all my diplomatic training to commit every single shred of sensory input to permanent memory.

Everybody in the room is happy and boisterous and a little drunk. I recognize the lingering post-concert high. A couple of the members are also on the dance floor, playing around, doing bits of their choreography, being silly. They are all friendly to me: “Ah, the beautiful interpreter, hello Katie!” I even get quick hugs and cheek kisses from a couple of them. I can’t believe I’m here, partying in LA with the same men I have objectified for hours on YouTube. How did I get this life? 

I’m having a great time, but I keep being aware that this is all very superficial, one random night. It’s not like Cho-Ji and I are developing any kind of deep connection. He is not somebody I can picture ever having a Tuánjié experience with. As we head back to our table, I realize that as amazing as he is, I can’t begin to imagine a real relationship with him. This is just going to be a night to remember, nothing more. But what a night. The evening isn’t slowing down. If anything, it feels like the party is just getting underway in here.

Around 1:15, my phone actually rings. A call is different. 

“Maybe you should answer that.”

I take my phone back out. It’s Ismail, calling me at this hour. Adrenaline shoots through my chest. “Oh no. I have to take this.”

I answer in Russian. “Ismail? What’s going on?”

There is a frightened edge to his voice. “Do you know where Adam is?” 

I’m filled with dread. “He’s not in his room? I don’t know, I’m out.”

“No, he’s not. He’s at a nightclub somewhere. Everyone is trying to reach him. Haven’t you seen your texts?”

“No, hang on.”

Amelia and Rashid have been texting me this whole time about the hunt for Adam. The texts are desperate: “Where are you?” “Why aren’t you with him?” “Do you know where he is?” “Help us!” 

He has gone out in LA alone. Fans have been flooding social media with pictures of Adam out on the town. All hell is breaking loose. 

He has dressed to seduce, that black shirt from the Victorias opened too low, tailored white tuxedo jacket, white jeans. He is mingling. He is drinking. He is surrounded by adoring young women. He’s taking selfies with them. Their hands are all over him. He’s enjoying it. My stomach lurches. He’s seated, a girl perched on his lap. Her hands are under his jacket, on his chest, around his back. His hands gripping her tiny little bitch waist. His face is slack, drink or desire, impossible to tell. Then she’s kissing him. She’s caressing his face and she’s looking into his beautiful eyes and she’s kissing those full, perfect, lips, and he’s letting her. I’m horrified. His commenting fans are too. This is a disaster.

The whole team is freaking out but nobody knows the city or the language well enough to figure out where he is. I think I’m hyperventilating. My hand is covering my mouth. Cho-Ji is looking on and shaking his head. He didn’t need to understand the conversation to understand this is bad. 

“That club is right across the street,” he says. I know, I saw it when I was outside. The décor is unmistakable.

Ismail is still on the line. “Ismail, I think I know where he is. I’m going to get him.” I hang up and look at Cho-Ji. “I’m so sorry.”

“No, go rescue your boy. He needs you. Does he have his own car?”

“No.” 

“I’ll lend you mine. Let’s go.”

We head downstairs and out a VIP side exit in a cluster of private security. We make it across the street before Cho-Ji is recognized and the screams begin, but the guards are very good at keeping people away. The doorman at the club across the way recognizes Cho-Ji immediately. I tell him I’m just there to retrieve somebody who is in trouble. Although the line is down the block, the power of being Cho-Ji-adjacent is enough to get me immediate access (or a litter and eight palm-frond fanning attendants to carry me if I want). Cho-Ji can’t go in without a lot of fuss and pre-planning; I’ll have to go alone. His job is done. In front of hundreds of cameras, we have to part with only a nod.

Inside, the music is throbbing, lights swirling, the floor packed solid with perfect LA bodies. Adam is easy to spot. His height, his clothes, the way the whole room seems to lean toward him all lead me right to him. He is backed up against the bar, holding court. The kissing girl has been pushed aside by other girls all demanding his attention. LA skanks. Ouch, did I actually just think that? He’s enjoying the attention but he also seems a bit overwhelmed, looking out over their heads like he’s searching for an escape route.

I have to wade through and throw a couple of sharp elbows to get right in front of him. I ignore the nasty epithets from the girls I displace. I look up at him, unsmiling. He straightens up, looking down at me, just as unsmiling as I am. It’s a long, uncomfortable moment. I hold my hand up in front of his chest, palm up. He obediently takes it. I lead him back through the crowd, through the cries of disappointment, and out the door. Cho-Ji is gone but a limo is out front with one of his guards next to it. Cho-Ji did this so we wouldn’t have to stand out here, exposed. The guard ushers us in quick like bunnies before the crowd outside can take a lot of photos.

Inside the car we are both still grim. While he looks at his phone, I text everyone that I have him and that we are headed back to the hotel. Then he speaks. I don’t recognize the tone in his voice. It’s somewhere in a painful, unpleasant quadrant.

“How was your date?”

I don’t even know what to think or how to feel. I’m so relieved I have him, I’m mad that he ruined my night, I’m mystified that he would behave like this, I’m worried for him. And I’m unreasonably upset about him letting that girl kiss him. Especially after what he said to me about making out with a stranger.

“You got more action than I did.”

“You sure about that?”

He holds up his phone. His fans aren’t the only ones who have been busy. He’s showing me a photo of me in the elevator with Cho-Ji. The moment where he hugged and kissed me, caught in those couple of seconds the door was open. It is dark enough and from an angle that makes it hard to tell exactly what’s going on, which means it could be and is being interpreted as a lot more than it was.

So. This tantrum is some kind of reaction to me ditching him to go out with Cho-Ji. Wow. I don’t even know what to think. How did he even see that photo? The whole thing makes me furious.

“Do you want to see what your fans have been posting?” I retort.

“No.” He looks ashamed.

“Why did you do this?”

“Why should I be the only person on my own tour who does not get to have any fun?”

Fair enough. He should be on top of the world right now, but no, he hasn’t been having any fun at all. 

And it’s at least partly my fault. I have been holding myself back from him for the whole tour, cutting him off from that feeling of connection we had. It isn’t just so I can prepare myself to move on. It’s because my feelings were hurt that he didn’t seem to care that I was going to. 

He asked me so earnestly in Lima to forgive him, to go back to how things were. I haven’t. I have still been nursing that resentment. If I’m honest, I know I’ve been hurting him. I knew ditching him tonight would hurt him. If I’m really honest, I think I wanted it to. Now I’m ashamed. 

Looking at him, I feel the dam in my heart finally crumble and the waters start to pour through.

“Adam.” My voice has softened. “You know I love you, right?”

He looks at me for a long time. He looks completely miserable. I think he’s been feeling like this all along. I feel so bad for him. 

I cross over to his bench and sit next to him. I turn toward him and slide my arms around his waist, squeezing him. I know he’ll think this is completely inappropriate, but he’ll just have to deal with it. I tuck my head under his chin, and press into his side. 

I do love him, I forgive him, and I want us to be close again. I hope he can feel how much I mean it. To my surprise, he doesn’t resist at all, or even tense up. Instead, he puts his arms around my shoulders and lays his cheek on top of my head. I guess all his touching rules are out the window tonight. 

“You’re still my best friend,” I say. “Nobody means more to me than you do. Definitely not Cho-Ji.”

His arms tighten. After a few seconds, he whispers “Love you too.” It’s probably only a minute until we get the hotel, but we stay like that for the rest of the ride, just breathing. I’m surprised at how relieved I feel, terrible feelings I didn’t realize I was holding melting out of my body. He isn’t the only one who has been unhappy. My nose is stinging like I might cry. He’s breathing like he might, too. So what if I’m only passing through. I’m here now, and I want my friend back.

The lobby is mostly empty at this hour. Still, I’m pretty sure we get photographed crossing to the elevator. If so, this will lead to a lot of speculation. I’m too drained to care.

The show the next night doesn’t start well. He sounds fantastic, but the magic doesn’t quite happen. There is a pall over the crowd. They are not happy about his antics the night before. Before the second set, he addresses it. His private life. 

“Everyone, I think you know, last night I did things that I’m not proud of. I’m sorry if I let you down. I’m sorry to anyone who I hurt. I want say I’m so grateful to all my friends who take such good care of me, especially my very dear friend Katya, who found me and saved me from myself. Thank you, Katya. This will not happen again.” 

I’m on the floor to the side the stage, inside the barricade, among the press and security, when he does this. He looks at me and gestures to me when he says my name. I’m touched. The audience is satisfied. After that, they are his, and the spell takes hold of the audience, the American press, and me. 

Just this once, I watch the whole thing and let myself feel whatever he wants me to. It’s dizzying. It’s a little bit scary. Somehow, though, I feel like I need to give in completely now. Whatever happens in the future will happen. I’m not a comet, I’m not a moon. I’m his friend and if I’m a real friend, I need to accept all of him, as all the others do. 

The rest of the concert is a total victory. It’s his best show of the whole tour. He’s just as passionate as ever, but tonight he’s finally happy again, his smile dazzling again. I haven’t seen that in months. He’s his old self when he goes out the audience at the end, joyful, beaming, touching every hand he can reach. He has to be dragged away. 

He has now arrived in the United States.


	41. Home Sweet Home

We’re home now for three weeks to rest before the final part of the tour, four shows crammed into ten days in Western Europe. Berlin, London, Paris, Rome. Or, rather, some of the team will be resting up for that, but those of us in the business office are completely buried in work. 

The tour of the Americas was successful beyond anyone’s dreams. In a couple of months Adam has gone from virtually unknown to the hottest new thing in Latin America There’s already talk of nominations for the various South and Central American music awards – best foreign artist, best new artist, world music song of the year, that sort of thing. We are fielding calls and offers as fast as we can, and my language skills are getting a workout. I will have no days off before we leave again. 

Saraiya has had her baby, so I’m covering for her. As soon as we get back, her house is everyone’s first stop. It seems like everyone in this country is baby crazy, even the men. Adam is no exception; he adores babies and children. We snap and post lots of pictures of him holding the baby, kissing him and smiling down into his face. Eighteen million women simultaneously ovulate.

We’re trying to keep Adam sheltered from as much of the madness as we can until after the last concerts. The pressure of those five weeks abroad was overwhelming. The team is worried about how tired and unhappy he seemed, concerned about his abnormal night out in LA. 

Everyone agrees he needs to rest. No appearances, no work for him until we start the European leg. Now that we are back, though, he has completely lit up and transformed. It’s obvious that he is happy to be home. For an international star, he’s such a homebody. Seeing him change back to his old self so completely, I realize, to my shame, that I hadn’t really appreciated just how down he had been. I had been too busy feeling sorry for myself to care properly about my friend. 

The tension between us evaporated overnight after LA, which seems almost miraculous, and is such a relief. But what is going on between us now is not back to “normal.” This is weird as hell. Neither of us has said a word about our falling out since we got home, but Adam is overcompensating for it with a vengeance.

There are no public appearances to worry about, but in private, he has totally abandoned Dilshad’s order for us to keep our distance, and has basically started treating me exactly like I’m his girlfriend. Well, not exactly. It’s more like we skipped completely over the girlfriend stage and went directly to being an old married couple. I don’t know what to make of it.

It’s September, the best time of the year, and our group is taking advantage of our few weeks of respite pretty much every night. Even though he relinquished the studio as soon as Ambassador was finished, Adam shows up at the office at the end of every work day to take me to wherever our friends are gathering. He doesn’t ask. He just assumes that whatever is happening, we’re going together. “Going together.” It reminds me of what they call couples in old high school movies. He appears, handing me my bag, telling me what our destination is, asking if I need to stop for anything on our way. 

He keeps me out late, until one and two in the morning. I’m often falling asleep by the time he’s ready to take me home. It feels like he is doing it on purpose. I don’t have a moment to myself until I stumble through my apartment door and pass out. Off to work in the morning, where every couple of hours he shows up for no good reason or texts me about something that can wait, then he’s picking me up and taking me with him again.

It’s equal parts sweet, funny, and annoying. One night nothing is planned but he shows up anyway. Since the two of us can’t go out alone, he seems perplexed and finally suggests we order dinner in at my place. He has never even been in my apartment. Being seen going up to my apartment would be infinitely worse than being seen at a restaurant. I have to laugh at him. “Adam, I get it! I’m not just passing through! You don’t have to prove it every night. Go home.” 

I’ve tried to kid him about it, see if he’ll take the hint. Now that he has his wonderful sense of humor back, it feels safe to play around. One day after work he’s nagging me to hurry up, we’re going to be late, his engine is running. He’s speaking Russian, putting on an old man voice, tugging on my sleeve and making me laugh. 

“Hurry up, woman. Move it! You’re going to make me late to my own funeral!”

I’m trying to slap his arm away and shut down my computer at the same time. “Cut it out, I’m not your wife!”

He lowers his voice conspiratorially. “Maybe you are and you just don’t know it.”

“I think I would know.”

“And yet.”

“Weirdo. Let’s go.” It feels good to have fun with him again. But yeah. Weird.

The photo of Cho-Ji kissing me in the elevator has detonated a bomb in his fandom. It quickly overshadowed the one of him pressed up against my back earlier that night, which enjoyed the top spot as most notorious photo ever for only a few hours. The elevator photo is the only photo of him supposedly kissing a woman that has ever been taken. Everyone wants to know what is going on between us. 

Adam’s meltdown has, of course, detonated another bomb in his fandom as well. Fans are wondering why he went rogue. Some think it was the pressure of the tour, some that it was the allure of LA, some that it had something to do with me. His night on the town has been plastered everywhere. 

But none of it, not even the photos of that girl kissing him, gets as much attention as the photos of him obediently taking my hand at the club, us getting in the car together, going back to the hotel. Speculation about what happened after Adam and I went up that hotel elevator together is indeed rampant. Two beautiful young people, me in that little gold dress, him in that sheer silk shirt, emotions off the charts. Both of us leaving the people who were just kissing us for each other.

Thanks to crossover fans, all of it is everywhere. So now I am internet famous as the possible love interest of not one, but two, famous performers. How the hell could that happen to me, the language nerd who doesn’t even have her own social media? It’s mindboggling. 

Some of it is worrying. There is a contingent in both fandoms that thinks I’m some kind of groupie slut playing both of them. Cho-Ji’s fans merely despise me. But Adam’s fans are scary. Saraiya was right. Even though they didn’t like the idea of me dating Adam, they are insane with rage at the idea of me betraying him by going out with Cho-Ji. They are out for my blood, possibly literally. 

The N-POWER team has said nothing; they never do. Addressing any part of this gets too close to Adam’s personal life, so our team decides that we too will say nothing and keep up with our practice of rigorously keeping our distance in public. Dilshad is furious, but he can’t blame me for Adam melting down or mentioning me at the Hollywood Bowl, so he doesn’t say anything, at least not to me.

The reason for my newfound fame makes things just little awkward at home. It’s obvious to everyone that Adam has practically handcuffed me to him. Their eyes are full of questions; they must be wondering whether the speculation about what happened that night is right. Nobody dares ask, though, not even Amelia. There’s not really a good way to casually mention that we didn’t spend that night ravishing each other, so I don’t say anything. If he does, I don’t know about it.

Of course the return of our old relationship raises old issues for me. When the dam in my heart crumbled, it pretty much crumbled completely. Now I’m having to redo the work I did six months ago to keep my feelings for my straight BFF from turning into anything problematic. 

These days Adam is, somehow, more attractive than ever. It’s suspicious. These are not his everyday clothes, that is not his everyday hair. He is putting totally unnecessary effort into his appearance, pushing toward the unrealistic end of the handsomeness scale, which I have to say is extremely annoying. More important, coming through our rough patch has miraculously made us closer than ever. I don’t need to build a wall as high the one I just took down, but some fortifications around my heart are still well advised. 

I remind myself that Adam is still completely unattainable. His family likes and trusts me now, but I am no more Sanzhar or Muslim than I used to be. If anything, now that I know them better, it is even more clear that I could never meet their expectations. Adam still can’t even have the appearance of a girlfriend, much less a real one, and never a Western one. And let’s not forget, I will still at some point leave here to resume my real career. Even if there was potential, given our life trajectories, it would not end well. Allowing myself to imagine anything else is just foolish. I am not foolish.

More important, despite how clingy he is being, he has not shown any signs of romantic love or sexual attraction for me. If he did, as a Sanzhar man, he would make that clear. And Sanzhar or not, when he wants something, he says so. He hasn’t. 

Aside from a few times after photo or video shoots when he tried to use one of his model gazes to get a rise out of me, he hasn’t given any indication that he thinks of me as a woman at all. He has not looked into my eyes again the way he did after Omsk and Seoul, which are now more than half a year ago. Tuánjié was spiritual, not romantic. The meltdown in LA was complicated. Sure, Cho-Ji and I going on a date probably reminded Adam that he and I never will. That could cause a twinge even if he didn’t actually want to date me himself. But if that played a role at all, it was the least of what was going on that night.

No, it really seems that he’s just being so clingy because he’s happy to have his best friend back, like I am. And maybe since he can’t have a real girlfriend, he’s enjoying having his best friend serve as a kind of temporary platonic life partner. I’m starting to think that’s a real possibility. Who doesn’t want that kind of companionship? It’s weird, but it’s not the worst thing. It’s actually kind of nice. I like being treated like I’m the most important person in his life. 

But there are problems with it. First, as before, I will never be able to date another man while this man is occupying this spot. Second, that makes me a placeholder until his mom presents him with the right young Sanzhar beauty and she replaces me. I don’t think I’ll like being replaced. 

Most important, this is so risky. The nights are balmy and beautiful. Elena is pregnant and Saraiya has the new baby, Amelia and Rashid usually have the kids with them, other friends flow in and out of our orbit, bringing happiness and love with them. Most nights there’s food and music, friends and family, warmth and laughter, everything suffused in a golden glow. It’s what I always wanted and never had. It really does make my heart overflow. It’s almost too much. 

Lack of romantic interest notwithstanding, Adam is not making it easy for me to rebuild my defenses. It is very hard to keep emotional fortifications up on a night like this, when we are all together, warm and drowsy around the fire pit while someone softly sings and strums an instrument. How am I supposed to protect my heart, drifting off next to him on this garden loveseat, sleepy and unguarded, when I feel him look at me so affectionately? When I make the mistake of looking back into that beautiful face in the firelight, how am I even supposed to breathe? 

I have loved these past few weeks and feeling close to him again. But the way he’s acting now, even without any hint of flirtation, is too confusing and too dangerous. I don’t want another horrible dramatic scene like with the photos in the conference room. I just need to put some space, literal physical distance, between us. But gently. I want him happy and at his best for the rest of the tour. After that, I will set some boundaries. It’s only a few more weeks.


	42. A Date with Robert

I’m not going to end up married to Cho-Ji or Adam, so for the sake of my sanity and Adam’s reputation, I need to be open to other prospects. Conveniently enough, I get called to the embassy to get briefed on the ferry job. It couldn’t be easier. I’m literally babysitting two cargo containers that I don’t even have to touch. 

Robert is there and asks if I’d like to have dinner and catch up. I ask if this is a business dinner. He chuckles. It isn’t. He must know about the rumors about my love life, so I have to give him some credit. It takes some confidence for man to throw his hat in the ring with my supposed other love interests. I accept. This will be very good for me. 

Of course there were already plans in place for our gang to go to the movies, so I have to tell Adam I won’t be going. After LA, breaking a plan with him makes me nervous. 

Although we tried not to schedule anything during this break, Adam couldn’t say no to leading a finale sing-along at some state-sponsored celebration concert. We’re all here, Vanya documenting everything while Saraiya is out, everyone else basically just being Adam’s entourage. I have him to myself only for a moment in the wings just before he goes on stage. I take my chance.

“Adam, I have to tell you something.”

“You can tell me anything.” He looks concerned.

“I can’t go to the movie tomorrow. I have another date.”

He’s astonished, of course. It is amazing that I managed to get a date given how Adam has barely let me out of his sight since we’ve been back. “With Cho-Ji?” he asks.

I have to laugh. “No, of course not. You think he’d come here for me?”

“No, he would fly you to wherever he is.” He looks disgusted. “Or meet you in Paris or on some tropical island.”

“Not Cho-Ji.”

“Then who?”

“Robert, from the embassy.” 

He almost looks like he’s going to laugh. “Coffee Robert? From that meeting at the palace?”

“Yes, him.”

He’s trying hard to keep a straight face. “OK, have fun.” He’s amused!

“Seriously?”

“Of course. Have the best time you possibly can.” 

“You’re not going to try to stop me?”

“No, why should I?”

“You tried to stop me going out with Cho-Ji.”

He actually laughs. “Are you really comparing Coffee Robert to Song Cho-Ji?”

Ouch. There’s obviously no comparison. I wanted Adam to be OK with this, but I didn’t want him laughing at me. I’m irked. “So me having one magical night with someone who is completely unattainable sends you over the edge, but you’re fine with me going on a real date with a guy I might actually have a shot with?”

“That’s right.”

I’m indignant. “How does that work?”

“Oh, Katya,” he says. He smiles and pats the top of my head like I’m a child. “That guy doesn’t have a shot with you.”

I huff. “I guess we’ll see.”

“Mmm-hmm,” he replies. He smiles at me beneficently as he turns on his mic and takes the stage.

Here it is again. Confusing. No sign that he wants me for himself, but he’s OK with this because he doesn’t think Robert has a shot with me? What am I supposed to make of that? These mixed signals have really got to stop. But whatever. Robert’s signal was not mixed. I’m going to wear that dress I wore to Chernov’s party and send some un-mixed signals myself. No shot with me. We’ll see.

Saturday night, at dinner, I petulantly admit to myself that Adam was right. Robert doesn’t have a shot with me. He’s nice, he’s smart, he’s blandly good-looking, but I have been completely ruined by men like Cho-Ji and Adam and the people in their world. I’ve even been ruined by my own little spy jobs. I know for sure that I can attract men with a lot more to offer than Robert and still find one among them with whom I can have a meaningful relationship. I haven’t ever thought about myself this way, but I really am out of his league.

I realize something else. Something concerning. I just don’t want to be here with Robert. It’s distressingly clear to me that the reason is that Adam is somewhere else, and I could be there. 

I know I desperately need to put more space between us. I thought that my decision to wait until the end of the tour was because I want the next leg to go well and I don’t want to rock Adam’s boat. Unfortunately, it appears that another reason is that I don’t want to give up whatever this is yet. I realize I can’t solely blame Adam for my weird platonic life partner status. This is not good news, but it is good to know. If I know about it, I can kill it. Later.

I get through dinner quickly and politely excuse myself. It’s pretty disturbing to think that my dates are all going to end with me abandoning my companion to go be with Adam. Nevertheless, I get a cab to the movie theatre, buy a ticket, and text Adam. The movie is just starting.

\--I’m here. 

\--Be right there.

In a minute he steps out of one of the theatres. At least he does me the courtesy of reacting to my outfit. 

“Really? You wore that for him?” 

“No.” I could not sound more sulky. “I wore it for myself.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing happened.”

“Then why are you here?”

I just look at him. “Shut up,” I say. 

He tries not to laugh at me, but still has an “I told you so” expression. He takes me to the row of seats where our group is seated, and half of them automatically move down to clear me a seat next to Adam’s. Of course they do. 

We are comfortable companions. He shares his popcorn and drink with me. Here, in the dark, our arms touching, I feel like the connection between us is stronger than ever. Yes, it’s weird and confusing and probably a little messed up and we do need to get to a more normal place. At the moment I can’t really care very much. Even though we won’t be each other’s platonic life-partner stand-ins forever, and even though it can’t be anything more than that, right now I’m happy to be next to him.

As the credits roll, he turns to me.

“Katya.”

“Mmm?”

“I know we talked about this. But really. You should not wear that dress around me.”

I look down and realize that the tight little skirt has slid way up. I have nice legs but I don’t mean to show quite this much of them. I let out a little yelp as I jump up and pull the skirt down.

He’s laughing again as we all get up. Then he says, “Don’t wear it around other men, either.” 

Yeah. I’m going to have to do something about this for both our sakes.


	43. Invitation to Bodrum

We leave for the Western European leg in a few days. Everything is at a fever pitch once again. Even though we have done this several times, it’s always tense before the show goes on the road. Covering Saraiya’s job means long hours for me, which makes me tired and testy. As calm and composed as Adam is, his anxiety has been building too. He seems uncharacteristically nervous one afternoon as he stops by my desk and takes a seat. 

“I have a photo shoot in Turkey the day after the Rome concert. I’m going there directly.” He’s speaking English today.

“I know.”

“I want you to come with me.”

“Won’t everyone speak English?”

“Probably.”

“Haven’t you already done the interview?”

“Yes.”

“Then why do I have to go?” I’m still peevish about Adam being right about Robert, and still feeling like I shouldn’t have to go absolutely everywhere he does. And after 10 days on the road I know I’ll be ready to come home and won’t want to take another detour for work. Travelling to yet another destination to watch people take pictures of your boss that you will then have to sort into categories of attractiveness stops being exciting after a while.

“Just in case.”

“That’s not a good reason.” I’m not interested in being a security blanket just because he’s having pre-concert jitters.

“I want you to go. Is that not enough reason?”

I try to stare him down. He doesn’t blink. I don’t really have a choice.

“Alright, you’re the boss. I’ll go.”

“Good. It’s two nights.” 

We shouldn’t even need one night for a photo shoot. This should just be a stopover on our way back to Izmir. “Why?”

“It’s at a resort. My favorite place. I want to...” He’s having a hard time saying what’s on his mind.

“What?”

“Have some fun. Relax. Get away from everything for a little while.”

I’m actually delighted to hear this. My enthusiasm shows. “Really? Good for you. I approve.” 

I really do. He never takes real time off. Even when he’s “resting” at home, he still finds ways to work. A couple of days away from everything at a beach resort after four concerts in quick succession is exactly the right thing for him to do. 

“Then you’ll join me.”

OK, so he wants company. On the one hand, this is weird. On the other hand, it’s exactly what I would expect from him these days. On the third hand... 

“Two days of paid vacation at a Turkish resort? Hell yes, I’ll join you!” We’ll just have to manage appearances very carefully.

“Good. Also, the first night we are having dinner at a very nice restaurant. One of the best in the world, actually.” 

“Just us?” I ask doubtfully.

“Yes.” 

I stare at him. He can’t be serious. Even though he has been glued to my side since we returned from LA, it’s been out of the public eye. People’s houses, private dining rooms, a darkened movie theatre, the office. The furor on the web was just three months ago, and the flareup after LA still has embers. The two of us cannot go out to dinner alone anywhere except maybe an airport McDonalds. The two of us alone at a fancy resort restaurant is out of the question. This is the opposite of managing appearances.

“You know we can’t do that.”

“Don’t worry. Cameras are banned everywhere on the resort. We can do whatever we want.”

If that’s the case, I have no legitimate basis to object to dinner at one of the world’s best restaurants.

“Are you sure?”

“I am. Bring the dress you wore to Lukpan’s wedding.” I’m flattered that he remembers my dress. I guess it really was as effective as I thought. 

“OK, then.”

He seems pleased and heads out to his final rehearsal.

Oh, boy. What is he doing? This is beyond confusing. We have traveled alone together plenty but not like this, nothing like this. This absolutely 100% sounds like he is whisking us off to a mini vacation together to celebrate the end of his world tour. This is something you do with your girlfriend, not your interpreter, not your friend, not even your temporary platonic life partner. 

For the first time something occurs to me. I have been thinking all along in terms of him being either definitely interested or definitely not. 

But it’s possible he’s in the same boat I am. He knows as well as I do that a romantic relationship is out of the question, but maybe part of him wishes otherwise. I am pretty damned desirable, if I do say so myself. As close as we are, maybe he also has to work to make sure problematic feelings don’t develop. 

How has this not occurred to me before? Maybe sometimes feelings creep up and he carelessly does something he shouldn’t. That would explain a lot. It doesn’t explain inviting me to a weekend alone at a glamorous resort, though. That’s not careless. That’s premeditated.

It is time to clear the air. This is scary territory, but after going from Tuánjié to LA and back again, I think we are at a point where we can – and have to – talk honestly about our relationship. If we acknowledge both the attraction and the fact that nothing can happen between us, we can move on. Maybe then I can start thinking more clearly about my future, start dating for real, start thinking about returning to the State Department eventually, figure out whether and how we maintain a friendship after that. This trip will be the perfect opportunity.


	44. Western Europe

Because of the new rumor mill flare-up from the incident in LA, we have been even more strict about appearances on this leg than we were over the summer. We have to appear to be on good terms. Not too good, though. Except when I am directly working with him, we now interact only just enough to make it seem like we aren’t deliberately avoiding each other. 

The separation is a shock after the last few weeks of being together practically every waking moment. I let him decide when to chance it. Every time he sits next to me or walks beside me, I feel like we’re getting away with something. Such a strange dynamic.

The shows could not go better. These are sold-out stadiums with all the bells and whistles. Dilshad scheduled the locations and dates so close together so the entire production could go on the road while keeping costs as low as possible. I was worried that the tight schedule would be too stressful, but Adam is in his absolute top form and happy as can be, and of course that transmits to everyone else, so every aspect of the shows is top notch. 

In Rome, the last show of the tour, and the largest, he sings like an angel, of course. Every ear in the arena dies and goes to heaven. He is also as unreserved as a teenager jamming out alone in his bedroom. He holds absolutely nothing back, utterly absorbed in the music and expressing every feeling with every fiber of his body. He is energetic, passionate, flirty, emotional, charming, and hot as hell. This is what makes him such an incredible performer. Being the best singer in the world alone doesn’t get 15, 20, 30,000 people to travel from all over the globe to come to your concert. 

He commands the stage completely. He’s on fire. The 50-foot screens and pyrotechnics can’t compete with his stage presence. As always, it takes a couple of songs for his spell to completely capture the room, but within 15 minutes, his fans are giving back as much as he gives them. They are screaming his name, waving banners and glow sticks, wild, madly in love with him, completely mesmerized and willing to be led wherever he wants to take them. 

He absorbs all their love and gives it right back. It is this that frees him to be as he is on stage, unrestrained, uninhibited, able to show them every part of him. I couldn’t do that in a million years. The emotion in the stadium is a 100,000 square foot safety net for him. He loves them so much for it, and he is so grateful.

Although I can’t imagine Adam flirting like this in real life, at this show, he shamelessly flirts with the audience. They scream that they love him and he seductively whispers back “I love you too,” knowing they’ll all just lose their minds, which they do. He tells them not to be jealous of his dancers, the woman who brings him a face towel, the stage hand who runs out when the receiver for his in-ears needs changing. 

“I promise there’s nothing between us,” he tells them, looking out devilishly, turning so that the screens show how she has to put her hands under his shirt to slip the receiver into a holster inside his waistband, fingers going where they all wish theirs could go. He totally knows how sexy he is. He moves around just enough to make her job take longer than it should, while the audience dies of adoration and envy. What a tease. It’s all real, it’s all part of him, it’s just a part that only comes out on stage, when the audience’s energy strips him of all his inhibitions. 

When I first saw him in Omsk, his passion, his beauty, his voice, and his charisma were completely overwhelming. Now what I mainly see is the joy performing brings him. I’m so happy for him. I understand now how his friends and family can watch his shows without reservation. But there are still moments that I personally can’t watch. All of Little Moon, for example. Without the dagger in my heart, his performance is actually harder to take. There’s no way I can watch his face while he makes those sounds. 

The fact that our vacation in Bodrum could present an opportunity for me watch his face while he makes those sounds in private suddenly comes to mind. I have never once allowed myself a thought like that about him. Shocked at myself, I have to hide. I lurk just inside the stage doors and watch the audience rather than him. He sees me there and rolls his eyes at me as he runs back for a costume change. 

After the last show of the tour, backstage is a bigger celebration than ever before. People are overjoyed, crying, cheering, so much emotion surrounding the success of the album and the tour. His dad hugs him, hard. They are used to this enough now that his parents no longer cry after his concerts, but it is still very emotional for them, and this one particularly so. It’s beautiful. What a year. 

I let myself join in, hugging everyone, overcome with emotion myself. I still have to stay out of his range, though. Tonight especially, I have no idea what a camera would capture. I can have my moment with him tomorrow when we go to Turkey, alone. He seems to understand what I’m doing. He meets my eyes across the room, joyful and triumphant, but doesn’t approach.


	45. The Rome Airport

Being separated so much has an unwanted side effect of building up some tension ahead of our trip together. Going to Bodrum the next morning thus feels really strange. I feel sweaty and awkward. I’m nervous about the conversation I know we need to have. Dilshad knows that we are both going, of course, and I’m sure his family must, but I feel so weird about it that I don’t mention it to any of our friends.

Saraiya often lets local fan clubs know when he’s coming and going around concerts so that they can see him off. People come from all over the world for his shows. The airport greetings are a big part of the fan experience for many of them. He loves it, but to me it sometimes feels a little scary. Each stop in South America was bigger than the one before. The greetings there became arduous enough that we decided not to disclose the schedule for the European leg, so we only encountered a few of the most zealous fans who gambled on the day and airport and got lucky. It wasn’t too bad.

Rome being the last concert of the tour, though, we decided to let the fans give Adam his sendoff. When we arrive, it is far more than anyone expected. You can measure album and ticket sales, but it’s hard to measure passion. I can already see the signs and banners up ahead before the vans even reach the terminal. Security stops our vans before we get close. 

The head of airport security debriefs us in the front van. I have to translate for everyone. He estimates about a thousand fans inside. Security will take us through to the airline check-in one van at a time. Right now the fans have formed a nice wide aisle for us to pass through, but they don’t expect it to hold. The idea is for it to hold as long as possible. 

They know it will be all over once Adam enters, so he’ll be last, right after his parents, and will have six guards all to himself to keep people at bay and move him through. We are all instructed to move quickly. Waving is OK, but keep moving, don’t approach them, don’t shake hands or accept gifts. If they think they can hand things to us or touch us, the line will break quicker.

Adam is not afraid of his fans. He adores them and is, of course, unfazed. Until security addresses me. They’ve done their homework. They know about the fans who are out for my blood. They haven’t seen direct threats, but they are worried that I might be a target. I, therefore, will be going first, while the lines are strongest. I will have my own guards as well, and they are going to hustle me right to the head of the check-in line. A guard will stay with me and the airline will check me in fast while everyone else gets escorted in. They want me to move through as quickly as I can. No waving, don’t interact, just move. Somebody from security will take my bags now. As I explain to everyone what’s going on, the mood in the van turns tense. 

Security has kept fans off the unloading area. I’m nervous as I hop out of the van. Adam and his parents look more nervous than I do as I cast a quick glance back. The gauntlet starts right inside the doors. I’m the first one through, with my three guards surrounding me. 

The thing about going first is that when the fans recognize you, they figure out that Adam has arrived. And these superfans do recognize me, immediately. A roar goes up as soon as they see my face. I feel a surge and the wall of human bodies forming the aisle undulates as people press forward. It holds, but as I am swiftly brought through, I can hear people shouting my name, trying to get me to look for a photo. Cheering, hands reaching out, I don’t know what for. I try to look like Adam would, welcoming and serene. But I can hear some nasty things. Puttana. Slut. 

Fortunately, I get to check-in without incident, and a guard takes me to the front of the line. As I check in, he’s scanning the crowd carefully for hostile faces, people moving toward us. There are people definitely looking at me, examining me like a zoo animal, like you’d never look at a stranger in an airport. It’s bizarre. Some faces are friendly. Some, though, seem to be hostile, dark with jealousy, resentment, or recrimination. 

More of the group joins the line behind me, the crowd getting more and more excited as they recognize the dancers, then musicians, then the inner circle, then his parents. As we have been getting checked in, my guard is making us wait just past the counter behind a velvet rope. The fans mostly ignore us, waiting for him. Nobody can move on to security until we are all ready to move as a group with all the guards.

In about five minutes, I know Adam has appeared, because the crowd goes apeshit. This is N-POWER-at-the-expo level wild. The aisle is obviously gone. It’s not quite a stampede, but it’s very alarming. I can make out his black head above the crowd. His guards can’t keep the crowd off him. Their faces are contorted and tense as they push people back. Fans are pressing in with all their tribute but for once he’s not accepting any. No gifts, no flowers, no autographs. I can see his hand in the air as he waves and blows kisses, moving slowly, having to wade through their bodies.

When he gets to the check-in line, two guards take him right to the front while the rest have to physically push the crowd back. Our eyes meet briefly. He’s shaken. That was too much even for him. He gets through quickly and we can all finally get the hell out of there. As soon as we are out of sight of the crowd, he skips over to me.

“Did anything happen?”

“Some lovely people called me a whore. But no, I got through fast. Are you OK?

“That was out of control.”

As we are deposited at the security check line, my guard speaks to me in Italian. “Tell your boyfriend it isn’t safe for either of you to travel like this. You need a better security plan.”

Adam evidently didn’t tell anyone about our plans either. As everyone else settles in at their gate, he announces that he is going to Bodrum for a photo shoot and a few days off and will see everyone when he gets back. He works through the whole gang, giving them all goodbye hugs and kisses and handshakes and thank yous. 

Then, right there in front of all thirty or so members of the team, he puts his hand on my back and steers me down the concourse toward our gate. I actually jump when he touches me. He never does that. I can’t help stealing a glance at Amelia, whose eyebrows are raised. Glommy dancer’s mouth is hanging open; she’s seething. His parents’ faces are unreadable.


	46. Adam Promises to be Clear

It’s a short flight from Rome to Bodrum across the Mediterranean Sea. We arrive by noon. It’s late Autumn and the weather is perfect. I’m looking forward to some rest and recreation myself, although I’m apprehensive about the talk I know we need to have. The limo driver has to give Adam’s name at a discreet little kiosk at the top of a hill to get past a gate. Aside from some lovely landscaping, there’s no hint of the exclusivity to come.

We crest the hill and I see the view. “Woooow,” I say. Adam is pleased to watch my reaction and rolls down the tinted windows so we can see better. We are winding down the hillside through a canopy of lush overhanging trees. Flowering vines are dripping down. While it looks wild, the downhill side has been manicured to create perfect vista after perfect vista.

We are heading into a wide cove. The hill we are on curves out toward the water on both sides for a long way, and eventually slopes down to meet the sea. Its shoulders create a perfect glittering harbor on the Mediterranean. It looks like the sun will set over the shoulder on our right. The sparkling water is a bright, deep, blue. A wide white beach extends the entire length of the cove. Just past the harbor, in open water, a dozen or so of the most enormous yachts imaginable are anchored.

I look over at Adam. “I have the best job ever!” He guffaws, pleased with my reaction. Ah, there’s that carefree, ear-to-ear smile that was missing for so long. He is enjoying the view as much as I am. “This is my favorite place in the world,” he says. “Other than my home.”

“Lucky for you they wanted to do the shoot here,” I say.

He shrugs. “Not entirely luck.”

“Lucky for me, then.”

He looks really happy.

As we are disembarking in front of the main lobby, he spends a couple of minutes on the phone, then tells me that I definitely won’t be needed at the shoot. I’m free for the day.

The resort isn’t anything as mundane as a hotel. It’s a series of a hundred or so private bungalows of varying sizes set into the hillsides above the beach. A shopping district stretches along the ridgeline above. It’s the kind of place where actual kings vacation, along with Beyoncé, Steven Spielberg, various billionaires. I am absurdly out of my league. This is well above Adam’s fame and fortune level. I don’t think it will be for long, though. He’s rising fast and I’m not sure there’s a ceiling for him.

We check in. Adam whispers something to a porter and our bags are whisked away. We are informed that photography or filming of the guests or their companions is expressly prohibited anywhere on the resort and anyone caught violating that rule will be removed immediately and the images confiscated. It’s weird to be one of the people who is being protected instead of one of the people they are being protected from. We can take a golf cart to the bungalow, or walk, or explore and go down later.

We walk down through the grounds, taking in the scenery. He points out where we’ll be having dinner tonight, up on a cliffside above the beach. A row of cozy half-moon booths faces the water, the wall in front of them a glass windbreak. It looks fancy, alright.

We get to the bungalow, down low near the water. It’s one of the smaller ones. To my relief, our bags are primly parked in the two separate bedrooms. The main room is a Turkish delight, all soft furnishings, ornate carvings, high ceilings with fans and draped swags of silk. The room is decorated with overflowing flower arrangements and baskets dripping with fruits and dates. This bungalow is the most stunning accommodation I’ve ever been in, the kind of super high end that goes past the high end and circles back down to welcoming and comfortable.

Wow, again.

He pulls back the curtains to show a stunning view of the beach thorough glass panels. Then, with a flourish, he undoes a latch and slides open the panels. They slide all the way into the wall, so the room is completely open to the outdoors. The sea breeze blows in, gentle, softened by the shoulders of the harbor. This is heaven.

Outside is a firepit, comfy patio chairs and sofa, a hammock. It’s the pinnacle of rustic Mediterranean luxury. He throws himself into the hammock and stretches out luxuriously. He’s grinning like a Cheshire cat. I bring him some dates and a the nectar of some exotic fruit in a fancy glass bottle. “Anything else, your highness?”

He considers. “Not right now.” He pulls his phone out of his pocket and I take it away from him. “Hey!” he exclaims.

“Be here now,” I reply, and toss his phone onto the sofa. I sink into one of the chairs and look out at the water. We stay there in companionable silence for some time, until I hear his breathing slow. He has fallen asleep under the dappled shade of a hazel tree. I can’t help staring while I have this opportunity; he’s just so absurdly handsome. Watching him sleep always stirs my heart a little. But I’ve been working on myself for the last few weeks, keeping it real, a careful eye on my feelings, planning for the conversation we have to have.

Sadly, I have to wake him after about an hour, because he has to get to work. Sleepy-eyed, he rolls out of the hammock, somehow managing to do it gracefully.

They will be shooting at locations all over the resort. Meanwhile, I’m free to do what I want. They have everything, it’s all included. Take advantage, relax, do spa things. He’ll meet me for dinner at 7. Wear the dress.

Truly everything is included here, down to tips. I have a whole afternoon and I am in the lap of luxury, so I decide to play against type and do it all, massage, salt scrubs, nails, all brought to me in the bungalow. The ladies who work on me are friendly and outgoing. The bungalow is in his name, of course. They know who he is, and to know him is to love him, so they are fans. I have to reinforce that we’re just here for work. See, separate bedrooms!

Although... my work appears to consist of a spa day while my boss is modeling. Followed by dinner at the fancy restaurant. Upon hearing that, they insist on calling someone down to do my hair and makeup. I hesitate, but he’s in the hands of professionals right now, and I really have no special skills in this area, so I allow it. I have to hold them back to get them to keep it understated. In the end I look like me, only way better. They help me get dressed and exclaim over the results. The dress hugs me just right. It is still just as glorious as ever, and I feel worthy of it.

After an afternoon of lavish pampering I feel better than I have in a long time. I’m in a great mood. But other than some fruit from the opulent baskets in the room, I haven’t eaten since leaving Rome. I’m excited for dinner at this world’s best restaurant.

I walk through the grounds alone heading to the restaurant. My heels feel wobbly and dangerous on the paving stones, but tonight I’ll sacrifice safety for beauty. As I wind up the walkway through the masses of broad green leaves and flowering foliage, I turn a lot of heads. The sun hasn’t gone down quite yet but the light is starting to soften and the little walkway lights are twinkling on. I feel like a princess on the way to the ball.

The view of the sea from the restaurant is somehow the best yet. Outside the entrance is a wide sunken stone patio right on the edge of the cliff. A few dozen people are milling about, mostly obviously extremely wealthy older couples, all in their best finery, sipping cocktails. I stop at the top of a few stone steps and look for him. He is easy to find. All the eyes on the patio are arrows pointed right at him.

Holy God in heaven, he’s spectacular. He’s lounging with his back against the patio rail, silhouetted against the sea and sky, waiting for me. Of course I’ve seen him transformed for photo shoots before, but it’s different when you don’t watch it happen and are just confronted with the “after” picture.

They’ve done his hair soft and swept back today. His features seem extra refined, the cupid’s bow of his lips visible even from here. From this angle, the Asian in his eyes is outweighing the European just enough to get me right where I’m vulnerable. He’s in his own clothes, my favorite black and white tux, the showstopper he wore the first time I saw him. Open collar, just like then. Despite all my hard work, my belly does a flip.

He sees me and doesn’t move for a moment. Then he crosses the patio. He’s still in model mode, it’s in his movements and his face. Everyone, even the waitstaff, watches in awe as he comes to me.

He reaches the bottom of the steps and stops. “Hi. You look beautiful.”

“Hi. So do you.”

He holds a hand up for me to take and helps me down the steps. A host appears at our side and leads us through the crowd to our table. The crowd parts around us, gawking openly. He doesn’t seem to notice. I know this is his normal, but for me to be the subject of this kind of admiration is a new sensation.

“Cameras or not, people are going to talk,” I say.

“Let them.”

We reach our cliffside booth and he releases my hand. Only then do I realize he had been holding it. There’s no way this hasn’t been photographed.

We slide into the cozy half-moon booth, discreetly positioned to keep prying eyes away. I feel awkward initially, the two of us on what would in any other context be the world’s most romantic date. But it isn’t long before it feels like it’s just us being normal. He’s in a lively mood. It’s contagious. He tells me about the clothes they made him wear (“Very bad. You don’t want to see.”) and I tell him about my day (“I have never been so spoiled!”).

There’s no ordering; it’s a tasting menu of tiny mouth orgasms paired with exquisitely selected wines. They seem to appear at just the right moment and it’s a few courses in before I realize that he’s signaling when to bring them. I immediately understand why this is considered one of the world’s best restaurants. The flavors are indescribable. Even though we aren’t drinkers, we have to sample the wines. A sip or two with every course is enough to create quite a fuzzy halo of relaxation.

This experience is like no other. Dinner is designed to last all evening, and we take our time, enjoying the incredible luxury of no demands, no timetable, no intruders, no worries. Especially no cameras. It feels amazing to be out in the open, enjoying something so spectacular, with our guards down.

We admire the view and rave about the food, chatting and laughing. The temperature is perfect. The breeze is perfect. Everything is perfect. The stars come out, bright over the Mediterranean Sea. Lights are twinkling all over the harbor, reflecting in the water. We’re lit by torchlight. It’s truly magic. I don’t want it to end. I’m completely comfortable and completely happy out with my closest friend. OK, my gorgeous, famous, ridiculously talented male closest friend, but whatever. It feels really good to have all that bad tension from before gone completely. I’ll deal with this other tension later. I don’t want to spoil this.

Much later and yet too soon, the next to last course is whisked away. I let out a sigh of total contentment. He leans back and stretches his long arms out along the curved back of the booth. I feel so good looking out at the lights on the water that I’m almost euphoric.

The waitstaff are the kind of attentive where they seem to materialize, conjure things on and off the table, and then vanish into thin air. He only has to twitch a finger and a flurry of them appear, depositing before us a slate slab with various miniature implements and an array of selections for assembling tiny little desserts, which I lean in to inspect.

I look over at him and freeze. Still lounging back, he is unleashing his most devastating smolder upon me. Chin lowered, eyes narrowed, half smile that says, “I’m thinking something, and it’s naughty, and it’s about you.” I get prickles all over my body, heat spreading across my chest and down my arms. I have to catch my breath.

I shake my head at him warningly. “Oh no. You cut that out. Don’t you turn that on me.”

He sits up, bends over the little slate tray, and starts assembling a tiny dessert right in front of me. If I just lifted my hand, I could run my fingers through his hair. I want to. I have got to get myself under control.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” He looks sly, suppressing a smile, teasing.

“You know exactly what you’re doing.” I’m trying to scold him but I can’t sound mad. A smile is tugging at the corners of my own lips.

He shoots me a sultry look from under lowered lashes. He does know exactly what he’s doing. He has spent far too much time in front of cameras not to.

My inhibitions are dangerously down. “Look mister,” I continue, “We may be friends, but I am a mere mortal and I am not immune to your charms.”

He’s finishing his creation with those long, elegant fingers. His voice is low when he replies.

“I would be very disappointed if you were immune to my charms.” He lifts his face and looks right into my eyes. “I have never been immune to yours.” His eyes are half lidded, seductive. He’s not kidding.

He holds the tiny confection up to my lips. I can’t move or look away. He motions for me to take it and I am compelled to obey. I let him put it in my mouth. A finger just grazes my lip, setting it to tingling furiously.

The little delight is the best thing I have ever tasted, and letting it dissolve in my mouth gives me a moment to think. He is watching me closely.

This is the opportunity I have been both waiting for and dreading. I screw up my courage and dive in.

“Seriously, you can’t do that.” I’m not smiling now.

He’s so close. He could easily kiss me. He says nothing.

“You can’t flirt with me. You can’t keep sending mixed signals. You’re confusing me. It’s not fair. “

He can see that I’m serious. He sits back and continues to look at me, head tilted, assessing me. His eyes are still narrowed, but he’s thinking something else now. It can only be several seconds, but it seems to go on forever, the nature of our relationship hanging in the air between us.

Finally, he nods slowly.

“I understand.”

“Do you?”

“I do. You’re right. No more mixed signals. From now on, I will be clear. You won’t be confused.”

I let out a sigh of relief. “Really? You promise?”

“Yes. I promise.” Just like that, he’s back to himself again, his regular friendly, non-seductive self. “Let’s go. Let’s sneak a picture first, though.”

He slides over, puts his arm around my shoulders and pulls me close. He is a selfie master, and his long arms make it easy to get a great shot of us both. We are illuminated by torchlight. We look exquisite in our black and white outfits, my skirt spread out beside me.

I stop at the ladies on the way out. As I’m washing my hands, a plump, elegant woman in her 40s steps up next to me. She’s staring at me in the mirror. I take a guess and greet her in Spanish. I was right. She speaks. “What’s it like?” she asks, almost whispering.

“Pardon?”

“To be with him.”

Our eyes lock in the mirror. Oh dear. She’s a fan. A big one.

I have no idea how to answer that. How could I even describe it? My first instinct is to say, “I’m not ‘with’ him,” but nobody would believe that looking at us tonight. More important, though, even though she’s asking about me, answering would be talking about his personal life, which is off limits. There is actually nothing I can say. So I punt.

“Would you like to meet him?”

She’s beside herself, pink-faced, overwhelmed in the way only a fan can be.

We walk out and I make apologetic eyes at him. He understands what’s coming. She has enough English to tell him how much she loves him, and it’s clear she means she _really, really loves him_ , how much his music means to her, etc., babbling that she saw his shows in both Paris and Rome. “Thank you, thank you very much, that’s very kind,” he murmurs at her, shaking her hand. I see, to my amazement, that she has his autograph tattooed on her wrist. He doesn’t see it. I feel very conflicted. I love that his fans love him, but I don’t love this.

“Have a good night,” I say to her after a minute, ending it.

“Do you think?” she asks him, holding up her phone.

I’m firm but gentle. “Oh, you know that’s not allowed here.” I look at her pointedly until she puts the phone back in her bag. I don’t want her taking any pictures of us leaving together. After a moment, she takes the hint and retreats.

“I might actually explode.” I say to him. Twelve tiny courses turn out to be an enormous amount of food. And 24 sips of wine is a couple of glasses. My dress is uncomfortably tight and I am light-headed.

“Let’s walk it off.”

We stroll back down through the gardens, attracting more stares from everyone we pass. Quiet music is subtly piped out and in the darkness the scent of the flowers is even more powerful. This place is incredible.

Beachside strolls in evening wear are a common occurrence here, so when we get to the sand, a resort elf appears. He pledges to take our shoes to our bungalow, which we accept, and offers us sandals, which we decline. Adam rolls up his pants and we walk barefoot on the hard, wet sand next to the water. The water is still and quiet, the breeze enough to ruffle our hair and make my dress float, but not be annoying.

We’re a little tipsy and we laugh and stumble a bit as we make our way down the beach back to our bungalow.

It’s only about 10 pm, but I realize how exhausted he looks. A ten-day tour, four concerts including one just last night, an early flight, then he worked most of the day and still took me out for that incredible experience. And he heard me when I told him he was confusing me. He really is an amazing person. I feel a rush of appreciation. I stop on the sand, looking up at him.

“Adam?”

“Mmm.”

“I think this was one of the nicest days of my entire life. Thank you.”

His look is indecipherable.

I do still feel uncomfortably full. “I can’t wait to get out of this dress though.”

He laughs. “Now who’s sending mixed signals?”

I smack him on the arm. “Shut up!” We both laugh and head up to the bungalow.

I say, half joking, “I think we should lock the doors. I’m afraid that woman might come in here and murder me. God knows what she’d to you.”

He teases me with a “how bad could it be?” look and a shrug, but he pulls the glass panels closed.

We head right into our separate rooms. I change into pajamas and flop down on the giant fluffy bed. It really was an amazing day, and I’m so pleased it took so little to clear the air between us. I can’t believe it came so easily for both of us to admit that we can have an effect on each other. His agreement to stop tiptoeing over the line is such a relief. It actually makes me feel even a little closer to him. This was good. I fall asleep feeling blissful.


	47. Adam Makes Himself Clear

Finally, he has the day of rest that he came here for. I’m sorry for him that it will only be one. 

The next morning we walk the streets of the shopping district. He’s in flowy linen and I’m in simple blue beachy dress that brings out my eyes, loose, tank straps, knee-length. Silk, though, because: resort. 

The shops up here are the highest end. It’s Orchard Road meets Rodeo Drive meets Tretyakovsky Proezd. Everything is manicured gorgeously, bougainvillea in full bloom dripping from the walls, flower boxes and baskets everywhere. 

We mostly just window shop. These are not the kinds of stores where I would dare to cross the threshold alone, but he is welcome here. We go into a couple of boutiques and he comes out with some t-shirts, sunglasses, designer boardwalk items at ten to a hundred times the boardwalk price. 

Here we are, walking outside, shopping like regular people. Nobody is screaming his name or asking him for anything. Nobody is taking his picture. We pass vaguely famous faces we recognize from time to time and nod acknowledgement. A couple of people do the same to him. Nobody approaches. 

I’m still worried about us getting photographed, though, so I keep some distance. I’m still nervous that there are photos of last night. Photos of that, or of us alone shopping in Bodrum, strolling the streets, eating ice cream, and looking beautiful together (which the store window reflections confirm we do) would require more damage control than the entire series of photos from a few months ago. 

It’s strange to be walking around in public with him. I wonder what it’s like for him.

“How does it feel to just walk down the street like this with nobody bothering you?”

He stops and looks around. “Until a couple of years ago, this was normal.” He looks again. “Well, being here was not normal. But to be able to walk around like this is nice. I miss it. I will be glad when that time comes again.”

“Do you really think it will?”

“That’s what I intend. I don’t see myself playing stadiums when I’m 40. I’m doing this now so that I can make music as long as possible, but I want my life to be normal. A time will come when I step out of the public eye. I want to walk down the street like this again, at home, with my family.”

“I’m not so sure that’s going to happen. I think by the time you’re 40 everyone on Earth will have heard your voice. They will never leave you alone.”

He chuckles. “I guess I will still need an interpreter who speaks eight languages, then. Maybe you will have to learn some more. Like Sanzhar.” He’s chiding me. It’s embarrassing at this point that I haven’t worked on acquiring Sanzhar.

We look at the display in the window of a jewelry store. A beautiful bracelet grabs my attention. It’s heavy, solid gold, and inlaid with a stripe down the middle in the same blue as my dress. Within the stripe are various golden symbols that speak to me: a heart, a peace sign, a star, symbols for world religions, music. The symbols are separated by gemstones, each in a different color. I just love it. I am transfixed by this shiny trinket. This shop doesn’t hide the prices. This is one of the less expensive pieces at 70,000 Turkish lira. About 10,000 US dollars.

I have never bought anything that expensive. I have quite a lot of money saved up, since I never buy anything extravagant and I don’t have any expenses to speak of. I still have almost all of my inheritance, plus the payments for side work I’ve been doing. I feel like commemorating this trip, the end of the tour, this time in my life. But yikes, $10,000 for a trinket. I’m vacillating, then in a rush, I decide I’m doing it.

“I’m buying that.”

He stares at me, round-eyed. This is not the me he knows. He’s so surprised his English slips. “Are you seriously?”

“Yes. I love it. I want it.”

He nods, admiring it through the glass. “It’s perfect for you.” He looks at me. “I will buy it for you.”

“What? No! You can’t!” 

“I can.”

“No. No.” This is too much.

“I owe you a gift.”

“No, you don’t. What are you talking about?”

“I do. I have for months. I’m giving this to you.”

I’m sputtering. “You do not owe me anything.”

He grabs my hand and practically drags me into the shop. A few patrons look our way. Adam lifts his chin at a shopkeeper who, like all the resort staff, instantly teleports to Adam’s side. He’s still holding my hand. That’s twice now.

I can’t make a scene in here. I can only stand there, trying not to hyperventilate.

“That bracelet.” He gestures.

“Yes, sir.” The shopkeeper takes it out of the display and carries it to the counter, where he sets it on a black velvet cloth. Adam follows and pulls me behind him. He releases my hand to pick it up and examine it. I’m not part of this transaction at all. I consider bolting, but I seem to be bolted to the floor.

“If you’re interested, there’s also a version of this for a man.”

“Show me.”

This one is silver, larger, the inlay is black, the stones all diamonds. Honestly, it’s even more perfect for him than the other one is for me. Being silver, it costs less. A mere 55,000 lira. 

“I will give you 100 for the pair.” They haggle for a bit while I look on, dismayed.

The shopkeeper puts them both in boxes and completes the transaction quickly. 

I’m probably the least happy customer he has ever had. Adam, however, is delighted.

We walk out. My face is hot. I’m sure I’m scarlet.

“You have to let me pay you back.”

“Forget it.”

“Then give it to me, I’m returning it.” I try to take the box.

He holds it above his head, well out my reach, teasing me. 

“I can’t accept this.” I’m really distressed, and it shows. “This is exactly the kind of thing I was talking about. You can’t do things like this.”

“This is confusing?”

“Yes! Expensive jewelry is confusing!”

He’s still laughing. “You’re easily confused. I thought you were smart.” 

“This is not appropriate.”

He looks at me sternly. “Now you are offending my culture.” 

I can’t tell how serious he is. I let out a little huff, with no way to respond to that. 

He continues. “I’ll tell you a secret.”

“What?”

“It cost less than our two nights here.”

That totally takes the wind out of my sails. Of course privacy and luxury are expensive, but wow. Maybe $10,000 isn’t a significant sum to him at all. I know something about the costs to run the Adam enterprise, concert venues, staff salaries, equipment, transportation, hotels, studio time, all that sort of thing, but I actually have no idea what he takes home after all that is paid for. He probably already dropped $2,000 on those designer t-shirts and sunglasses without batting an eye. Maybe I’m making too much of this.

We’re staring each other down. I know that when he sets his mind to something, argument is pointless.

I relent. “Fine. I accept. But really, it’s too much.”

Victoriously, he takes the bracelet out of the box. It is perfect. 

I hold my hand out, palm up. He rolls his eyes at me. He wants to put it on me. I turn my hand over.

He clasps it around my wrist with those long, beautiful fingers, then holds my hand in both of his, admiring it. Tingle, tingle, tingle. That’s on me. He looks up at me. “Thank you,” he says.

“Why are you thanking me?”

“For everything. For accepting it. For taking such good care of me. For this year. For the coming year.” 

I’m touched. Nothing I can say seems adequate to that. But to hear him mention the coming year after the comet fiasco gives my heart another pang.

“Aren’t you going to wear yours?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says, and drops my hand. He opens the other box and then hands his bracelet to me. Oh. OK, then. I clasp it around his wrist, being careful not to take any longer than I have to. We both admire it. It looks great. It was practically made for him. 

And just like that everything seems normal yet again, other than the fact that the bracelet is burning through my flesh. 

The rest of the day is just perfection. The weather could not be nicer; the sky blue and clear, the breeze warm and gentle, the smell of flowers wafting through. The resort is a paradise. As we wander through the gardens and along the promenades, every so often some sort of entertainment appears, not trying to gather crowds, just performing for whoever happens to come along. A juggler, a man with a trained monkey, a magician, an accordion player. No tipping allowed. The little diversions keep me in the moment, not worrying about the past or future. Every time we sit down somebody offers us mint tea, fruit, some little refreshment. It’s a dream.

Adam is as good as his word. No seductive model looks today, no flirting. The only questionable thing is that he seems to be touching me more than normal, which is to say, at all. He picks up my wrist to admire my bracelet a couple of times and it feels like it lingers a bit longer than necessary. When we are moving through crowds, the hand that was only hovering in those pictures is just touching my skin. Nothing suggestive. 

I wouldn’t think anything of it if it was any other man. Maybe this is what he was like before he had to be on guard all the time, what he would be like naturally if he were free of cameras now. I can’t help thinking that cameras or no cameras, I’ve seen at least a dozen people recognize him. There’s a good chance this little vacation with his interpreter is going to become public.

The day is just small talk. Nothing about anyone’s immunities to anyone else’s charms. I have never spent an entire day alone with him when we weren’t working. It’s a strange sensation to just hang out with no pressure, nowhere to go, nothing to worry about, but it’s very pleasant. We try to stay in the moment, and only talk a little about what happens when we get home. He was supposed to have a break after the tour, but the buzz is strong right now and he needs to take advantage of it. That means we’ll both have to work a fair bit. Looks like they will still need me, which is good since I have heard nothing about Moscow. 

I do have my cargo babysitting assignment right after we get back, and will thus be flying to Korea in a couple of days. He presses me – am I sure this is safe? Nothing can happen? I assure him that for this one I don’t even have to talk to anyone. I can’t get caught because there won’t be anything to catch me doing. 

He talks about spending a couple of months in California next summer and it sounds like he intends me to be there, even though by then his English will be pretty near perfect. So I guess the expectation is that things are going to continue as they have been, at least for a while.

In the late afternoon we make it down to the beach and just watch the water, not talking. He’s cross legged on the sand and I’m hugging my knees. I don’t know when I last felt this peaceful. It looks like he feels the same. Later, dinner is kabobs on the beach at sunset, in the chairs the resort elves have brought down, wonderfully casual. The street entertainers have made it down here and keep all the guests laughing at their cheerful antics. After that, more strolling around on the beach and through the grounds.

I wish the day would never end, but of course it has to, and we return to the bungalow. The elves have lit a fire in the pit. The sofa is glowing in the firelight, beckoning. I plop down on it. Adam joins me. After such a chill day, he’s looking very pensive.

There’s really no adequate way to thank him for these two days, but I want to say something. “Thanks for this. Today was even better than yesterday.” 

“Mmmm. Yes.” 

“Do we really have to leave? Can’t you just buy this house?”

A chuckle. “Maybe one day, God willing.”

“Well, I hope you’ll let me come visit you.”

He gives me an odd look. I feel something shift. He sits up and turns on the sofa to face me. Something is up. I look at him, curious.

“Do you know what today is?” he asks.

“October third?”

He is resting his elbow on the back of the sofa, knuckles raised up to his lips in that way he does. He’s windblown from the beach, hair ruffled, linen rumpled, one extra button undone again, golden in the firelight. Why does he have to look like that? He’s giving me an expectant look, waiting for something. Perplexed, I also sit up and face him, looking for a clue.

“What?”

“Think.” 

I’m finding it hard to look away, and also hard to think. But I try. October third, what about it? It’s not his birthday. It’s not anybody’s birthday that I know of. Mine is weeks away. It is Lukpan’s and Elena’s anniversary, though. It hits me.

“Oh.” I blink. “Today is the day we met. It’s been a year.” I suddenly remember seeing it on his personal calendar a when I was inputting this photo shoot a month ago. An unexplained entry for “one year.”

He nods. “Happy Anniversary.” He almost whispers it. 

What do I say to that? So much has happened. My whole life has changed completely in the last year, but all that happened a year ago was that we were introduced, exchanged a couple of sentences. “Anniversary” is a pretty loaded term for that. My senses are on high alert. Unsure of myself, I just say “It’s been a good year.” 

He looks down. “It’s been a long year.” His voice is still strangely low. There’s a pause. He seems to be setting his mind to something. 

He picks my hand up out of my lap. “I have waited for this day for a very long time.” 

Then, very deliberately, he runs his fingertips up my wrist, slowly, across my palm, just grazing my skin. It’s unabashedly sensual. This is not the way a friend touches a friend. He flattens his hand against mine, palm to palm, fingers to fingers. Then he interlocks our fingers, clasping my hand in his. He looks right in my eyes. He doesn’t have to say anything. There is nothing confusing about this. 

He is in love with me. 

I’m completely shocked. I can barely speak. 

“What are you doing?”

“What I want to do. Finally.” 

This can’t be real. He has to be messing with me. “You promised not to do things like this.”

“No. I promised to be clear.” 

He’s holding my hand in both of his now, stroking my wrist with his thumb, touching the bracelet he gave me, sending fire up my arm. Here, in the night, warm breeze, salt air, firelight, the most romantic setting imaginable. He’s waiting for me to wrap my mind around it. I really can’t. My breath goes shallow.

“Are you serious?”

He nods. “I’m sorry that I couldn’t be clear until today.”

That makes no sense. None of this makes any sense.

“What are you talking about?”

“I promised my parents that I would keep my feelings to myself until I had known you a year.”

I hear his words but there’s way too much information in that sentence and I can’t extract it all. 

“What?”

“They asked me to wait a year so that I would be sure. But I’ve been sure about you for a long time.” His voice breaks just a little. 

This is actually happening. This is not a joke. I’m starting to panic. He’s still stroking my hand. I can’t think.

I pull my hand away and cover my face with both my hands. “Oh my God. Oh my God!” 

He’s quiet, watching me. He must know this is an incredible shock to me. I look at him between my fingers. 

“Your parents?” 

“They’ve known from the beginning.”

Holy crap. I’m trying to put this together. He’s in love with me and negotiated with his parents when he would tell me? How long has this been going on?

“What... what beginning?”

He is watching me patiently, choosing his words carefully.

“I was interested from the first time that we met. But it got serious in Seoul.” 

“Seoul?!” That was eight months ago. We barely knew each other then. I’m just shaking my head; this is all just impossible.

“You remember the little girl, the one who was crying?”

I nod. I remember the strange way he looked at me after I fixed her hair. 

“When I saw how you treated her, that was the moment I knew.” He pauses. “You must remember after that concert.”

How could I forget? Especially after seeing pictures of it. “Um. Yes.”

He’s smiling a little now. “That was exactly what it looked like.”

Our whole history is falling apart and reassembling, my mind flooding with images, memories of conversations and moments and events that suddenly look completely different. Pieces are starting to fall into place. 

“Is that why you hired me?”

“To keep you from leaving Izmir, yes. Not just for work.” Good God. He told me that the day I started. I thought he was joking. 

So many questions. Maybe now he’ll answer this one. “Tuánjié?”

His eyes slide to the side, concealing something now. “Ah, Tuánjié is a different conversation, for another time. But yes, very important moment.”

“Los Angeles?”

He grimaces a bit but nods. “Weakness. I am a jealous man. Possessive. And not as secure as you might think.”

What a ludicrous notion. “How can you be insecure? Millions of women in are love with you.” 

“Katya.” His tone is almost chiding. “I don’t care whether millions of women are in love with me. I only care whether you are.”

While I attempt to process those words, that sly smile plays across his lips. I suddenly feel very warm and a whole other kind of nervous. “So ... about you not being immune to my charms.”

“Oh no.” I hide my face again, cringing down into the sofa, trying to disappear. “Why did I say that?”

“Because it’s true.”

I’m mortified. I try to gain at least a bit of composure and look at him between my fingers. He’s back in flirtation mode. Such confidence. Nope. I cover my eyes back up. “I can’t look at you.”

“Yes, you have that problem sometimes.” He’s smirking. He knows exactly what’s going on at those moments.

“Ugh.” I squash myself further down into the cushions, trying to squirm away. He’s forcing this out in the open. As well as I have done not letting it get the best of me, the fact is that I am very attracted to him. And he knows it.

“Stop that.” He takes my wrists and pulls my hands away from my face. He’s gentle, but he overcomes what resistance I put up with no effort at all. I suddenly feel very exposed. He’s holding my wrists apart in front of me. His flirtatious look shifts into something more primal as his eyes travel over me almost laying down on the sofa beneath him. I have never seen him do that. 

Of course I trust him completely. But I’m very aware that if he wanted to do something, do anything really, he could. A shock runs through me and hits me in a couple of particularly pleasurable spots. This is the first time I’ve felt true sexual tension with him. Not just attraction. Actual desire. He feels it too. My heart is racing now. 

His voice is low again. “You must have thought about it. What it would be like. To be with me.” 

This is too much. I try to sit up and of course he helps me up instead of holding me down; he would never do that. But he doesn’t let go. He grips my hands firmly in his. 

But at least I can actually answer that. This is what I have spent the entire year working very hard on. “No, I can honestly tell you I have not thought about that even once.” 

He’s perplexed. “Why not?”

“Because I can’t think about that. Not ever, not even a little. Not with you being ... you. And our relationship being what it is. And me ... being a comet.”

He shakes his head in exasperation. “You’re not a comet. You’re my star. You must know Little Moon is about you.” 

No way. No. My mind goes right to the way he performs the chorus, his hands on the mic stand. I can’t even think about that. 

This is not pleasant, but I have thought this through, carefully, a few times. Whatever he is thinking, nothing can happen between us. I have to say so. “Adam, it’s impossible. You know it as well as I do. “You just... you can’t have a girlfriend. We’ve covered this territory. You can’t ever have someone like me as a girlfriend. You saw what happened when your fans just thought you might.” 

He shakes his head again. “That can be managed.”

“We’re way too different.” I try to pull my hands away, but he won’t let me. 

He disagrees. “On the surface, yes. But underneath, in the ways that matter, we’re very much the same.” 

“I’m not Sanzhar. I’m not Muslim.” There’s really no way around this one.

“With a different kind of woman that would matter. With you it doesn’t.”

“It matters to your family. And what matters to them matters to you.

“I waited a year to get their blessing. I have it. I love you, Katya. I want us to be together.”

Wow.

He gives me a careful, calculated look. “You’re telling me why you’re not right for me. That’s for me to decide. Tell me why I’m not right for you.” 

Once again, I’m speechless. I have never thought about it that way. Obviously, he is everything I could ever want. He has flaws, of course, but I like and respect almost everything about him. There’s nothing that would give me cause for concern about the kind of boyfriend or husband or father he would be. I’ve never been as close to anyone as I am to him. And my God, just look at him.

He sees he has made his point. “Everything that you are saying, none of that is important. It’s just your mind getting in the way.” 

He sighs. His voice is gentle, a small, soft smile to match. “I know you’ve been telling yourself you’re not in love with me. I have watched you do it all year.” 

He pauses, thinking carefully about his next words. “All I’m asking, what I brought you here to ask, is this: Now that you know how I feel, can you consider the possibility that you feel the same?” 

I allow my mind to just barely graze against the idea that I’ve been lying to myself, that my attraction to him isn’t just attraction, that my love for my friend isn’t just friendly. A terrifying abyss yawns before me. “I don’t know.”

“Try.” His command is gentle but firm, like his hands.

I’m chewing my lip, thinking. I don’t want to try. I don’t want to take the risk that comes with those feelings. I’m happy just being his close friend and supporting his career and being uncomfortably attracted to him without anything coming of it. Keeping a safe distance. 

Shit. I am Little Moon.

I take a deep breath. “OK. I will try.” I will test crossing that line. This is insane.

“Thank you. Not exactly what I hoped, but good enough for now.” Satisfied, he finally lets go of my hands. “Let’s go to bed.”

I look at him doubtfully. He laughs, then puts his flirtatious face back on.

“Don’t worry. You know what a good boy I am.”

I do. But damn, with that face, he doesn’t look like a good boy.


	48. Leaving Bodrum

The next morning I can’t imagine how I can possibly face him or talk to him or sit next to him for an entire day of travel. I delay as long as I can before I come out of my bedroom with my suitcase. He’s leaning on the counter of the little kitchenette, eating a nectarine, looking at a newspaper. His hair is damp. Black t-shirt, white jeans. Gorgeous. There’s no way he could ever be mine.

He looks up and gives me a wicked grin.

“Sleep well?”

I can’t help snorting. “Shut up.”

Even though everything is definitely not normal, you’d never know it from how he is acting. Cool as a cucumber, scrolling through social media in the limo, checking us in at the airport where there were mercifully no fans waiting, going through security. Meanwhile my mind is racing in circles like a chihuahua on speed. We wait for our plane at a little concourse café. He’s resting his chin in his hand, watching planes on the tarmac, and seems to feel no need to discuss the events of the last 24 hours. 

Finally I can’t stand it. “How are you so calm? I’m a mess.” 

He slides his eyes over to me and thinks for a moment, then gives a noncommittal shrug. “This is the calmest I’ve been in six months. All that time, everything between us has been out of my control. I couldn’t do anything. Now I can. This is much better.”

“Six months?” That’s longer than I imagined.

“You were there. The day that my father and I argued in the conference room. He was trying to tell me that you were not the right girl for me, that my hormones were poisoning my judgment. Before that day, I always told him that he was right. That day I told him that he was wrong.” 

Adam is indeed a true Sanzhar. Now that he can say how he feels, he’s not being timid about it. 

“He said that if I still felt the same after I had known you a year, he would give me his blessing. Until then I had to be only your friend, no hint of anything else. I couldn’t tell you anything, I couldn’t pursue you, I couldn’t fight for you. I had to let whatever happened happen. So I’m calm because now my destiny is back under my own control. You’re a mess because now you feel out of control. You don’t know what’s going to happen. You hate that.”

“You don’t know either.”

A knowing half smile. “I think I do.”

I feel a flush pass all over my body. “What’s going to happen?”

He’s teasing me, but it’s clear that he really is that confident. “It may take a while, but you’ll surrender. It’s inevitable.”

“Don’t be cocky.”

“Have you ever seen me give up?”

I have not. I go back to thinking about it. Am I in love with him? Am I in love with him? Am I in love with him? After a year of avoiding even approaching that possibility, I can’t get my mind to go there. When I get near, the notion just rolls away. I said I’d try but I really don’t know that I can. When he catches me staring holes through him, he just laughs and looks at me like I’m adorable. That look of love is still in his eyes, not as intense as last night, but still there. I can’t believe he kept that hidden all this time. 

He should be more careful, though. A couple of young Turkish girls come up, all giggles and blushes, and ask for an autograph. One of them has a phone case with his picture on it. He’s sweet to them and signs whatever they give him. He takes a few selfies with the two of them. They take some liberties, touching his back, his chest, while they pose. The usual. I try to look like a businesslike assistant, not sure what they have seen or might think.

When they leave, he teases, “Can’t you just throw yourself at me like other women?”

“That will never happen.”

We couldn’t possibly go public if we were together. Do I want to deal with that? He looks at the girls as they walk away, and I think he’s thinking the same thing. 

We’re in first class. It’s sunny and clear outside, perfect flying weather. This should be as comfortable and pleasant as air travel gets. But I’m going crazy. How did I not know? How did he give no sign until these last couple of weeks?

Meanwhile, Adam is sitting next to me, just as serene as can be, listening to his headphones like it’s just another day. It’s infuriating. How it is that he’s the one who has put himself out there and yet I feel like I’m the one who’s at a disadvantage?

He notices me staring and pulls his headphones down.

“Yes?”

“I don’t want to interrogate you.”

If it is possible to smirk benignly, that’s what he does. “Yes, you do. Go ahead.”

I have to be quiet. Everybody on this plane knows who he is and I’m sure they’d love to hear this conversation. “I just don’t understand how this could have started all the way back in Seoul without me knowing anything.”

“I want to tell you everything. But I think that I should make you wait.” He’s teasing me yet again. 

“Until when?!”

“Until you admit that you’re in love with me.”

“What if I’m not in love with you?”

“You are, though.”

Now I’m flustered again. “I mean, I love you, of course, you know that,” I say. “Just...” I’m not sure where to go from there. 

“Just...?” he challenges. His voice is low. “You love me, just ... you’re not attracted to me? Or you love me, just you don’t see me as a man? I’m just not your type?” 

I flush. We both know the truth. “So what?” I retort. “You’re objectively attractive, everyone knows it, everyone has to deal with it, it doesn’t mean anything.”

His tone softens. “Fine. Then: you love me but you can’t trust me with your heart? You love me but you don’t think we could make each other happy? You love me but we aren’t intimate enough to be lovers?” 

Damn. I guess this is what pursuing me looks like. I know Adam didn’t get to where he is by sitting around being passive, but I am not prepared for him to be this aggressive. “What do you want me to say?”

“You know what I want you to say.”

“Well, I can’t say that, so what else do you want?”

He has that assessing look that makes me so nervous.

“I want to pull you into my lap and put my arms around you and hold you and kiss you and stay like that all the way to Izmir.”

I gasp. Heat rises through my chest and face; I’m blushing furiously. “Oh my God. You can’t say things like that.”

“Fine, I won’t say things like that. But I need to do something.”

I look at him doubtfully. “What?”

He casts a look around the cabin; nobody is watching. He reaches out and just like that, he’s stroking the side of my face, fingers curled around my neck, thumb on the corner of my jaw, my ear. It’s ten times the sensation of him taking my hand last night. And there is no oxygen in this plane. I literally cannot breathe. I am paralyzed.

He just barely bites his lower lip and I am transfixed by watching it slide back out from under his teeth. How can a man’s face look so sensual? “I had to watch two other men touch you this way. Now this is mine.” He runs his fingers through and out of my hair and it’s over.

Holy shit. I’m having a heart attack. “Don’t you think you should be nice to me right now?” 

He can see that he has pushed me far enough. He relents. “Yes. I should. What do you want to know?”

I want to know where the parachutes are. “I want to know how this happened!”

He lowers his head for a moment, thinking. He’s looking at my hand like he wants to pick it up, but of course he can’t do that here, thank God. I can’t hold hands with him. 

“How this happened. Alright,” he says. “I’ll tell you some of my secrets. It didn’t start in Seoul. It started the night we met.” He looks back up at me, and there it is again. He really is in love with me; this is not a joke. I immediately feel a panic coming on, and I have nowhere to run. How am I supposed to deal with this?

“I don’t believe in love at first sight,” he says.

“Of course not.”

“But that night, that was close.” 

I’m not going to survive this conversation.

He pauses, thinking back. “When I first saw you, you were this stranger laughing and talking with my best friends. I could tell how much they liked you. Just watching you, you seemed so….” He searches for words, “Warm. Kind. Gentle. Considerate. Just like you are. You caught my attention right away. You were also very beautiful, of course. But that wasn’t what got me.” 

I feel like I’m sizzling under his gaze again, almost like I did after Omsk. My brain isn’t working right with him looking at me like this. I can only wait for him to continue.

“You have this quality about you. You don’t even know it.” 

“What quality?”

He has to search for the word. “Vulnerability. I could feel it from across the room.” Well, that’s fitting. I feel completely vulnerable and exposed right now. “It does something to a man. It made me feel very protective. Possessive. It still does. Even more now that I know where it comes from.” 

I have both sheltered under his protectiveness and chafed under his possessiveness. I never dreamed this is what it meant.

He continues. “Then we met, and I found out that you were the brilliant American interpreter, and you said all the right things, and you looked at me with those eyes of yours. And that was it. I was bewitched.” 

“I didn’t think you noticed me at all.”

“Pfft. Every man there noticed you. You didn’t notice me.”

I will never forget the moment I first saw the star. “Oh, I promise you that I did.”

He is flattered by the understatement in my voice. “You didn’t show it.”

“Neither did you.”

“You know how it is. I couldn’t be seen paying too much attention to a pretty girl at a wedding.” He regards me, gauging how I’m doing. My discomfort is obvious. “Should I go on?” His voice is like silk.

“I don’t know. Maybe. No. Yes. Yes, I think I should know.”

He nods. “I wanted to see you again, of course. I could not ask you out, obviously. I was traveling all the time, so I could not do the normal thing and just show up when I knew you would be with my friends. I had to get creative.”

“Meaning what?” 

“Meaning I arranged for you to come to the RMR meeting. I thought that you probably would not know anyone in Moscow, that you would have dinner with us, that I would get to spend the evening with you.” He huffs a bit, but he’s amused, not mad. “I do not think that I have ever had a woman blow me off so completely. You walked right past me before I could even ask you to join us.” 

“You requested me for that?”

“I did.”

“Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

“You would have thought that I was a stalker.” 

That breaks the tension a bit; I have to laugh. “No, no. When you like a guy it’s romantic. It’s only stalking when you don’t like him.”

“Well, then, the next couple of months were very romantic. I did the same thing for the Victorias. I thought that if you spent a whole weekend with me I would have a chance to impress you. But, of course, celebrities do not impress you.”

“You did impress me. I told you so on the way to the hotel that night.”

He nods acknowledgement. “That was a good start. But a man doesn’t leave his best tools in the shed. Of course I had to invite you to a concert.” He shoots me a decidedly devious and brazen look. Wow, he is not going to let me off the hook with this whole not being immune to his charms thing.

“Ugh. Can we please never speak of that?” 

“Not speak of how you blew me off yet again, at my own concert? How you made me go to a hotel bar full of my own fans to find you afterward? How I practically told you right to your face how much I was obsessing over you? Or...” he lays that seductive smile on me and lowers his voice almost to a whisper. “Is there something else that you don’t want to speak of?” 

He is really turning up the heat. He has never seriously played this card. I have no defenses against this. When he is satisfied with my squirming, the seducer vanishes and the lover is back. I don’t know which is harder to take.

“At that point I was just obsessing over you. Everything changed in Korea. I didn’t expect any of it. Once we finally started getting to know each other, it was almost scary to see how much potential was there. I had not connected with anyone like that in a very long time. It felt like destiny. Another big moment was finding out that you had no family, that you were alone. Even I was surprised by how much I wanted to give you everything that you were missing. I wanted to be that man for you. Watching you with that little girl was the last straw. When I saw you give her your hair tie and cut those flowers for her, it was an arrow straight through my heart. I knew then that I was falling in love with you.”

In the face of so much emotion I am flooded with feelings I don’t even know what to do with. This is beyond flattering. I’m so touched and baffled. I can’t believe that he kept it hidden so well even then.

“How did I not have any idea?”

He chuckles. “Don’t you remember your conditions? You said if I hit on your or made you uncomfortable, you’d leave. So I didn’t.” Right. Of course. “But if you didn’t know after that last night, you have only yourself to blame.”

“That’s just how you are after shows.”

“After shows all of my emotions are on the surface. If I look like I’m in love with you, it’s because I am. My father could tell.” Adam sternly wags his finger in the air, imitating his father. “Back at the hotel, he said ‘now is not the time for girls, and that is not the girl for you.’ I wasn’t sure what I was going to do until I found out you were going to move to Moscow.”

He pauses, deciding whether to say whatever is next. “I couldn’t let you go. So I got you to come work for us full time.” He looks shifty.

“What?”

“I hope you still think this is romantic. I told Dilshad to hire you no matter what it took. I called some friends and … pulled some strings that may have helped push you my way.” 

He has to be talking about the Sanzharistan Minister of Culture. She called the Ambassador that day. My boss’s total reversal of position between that morning and that afternoon. I can’t even open that can of worms.

“Dilshad knew?”

“No, I told him I needed you for work. But he’s not stupid. Once you joined us he could see what was happening between us.”

“But nothing was happening between us.”

“Katya. We were perfect together. Perfect teammates, perfect companions, perfect everything. Best friends, inseparable. Of course something was happening between us. You just wouldn’t admit it to yourself. Just like now.”

This is starting to be too much. This is upending my whole conception of our relationship.

“By the time we went to London it was over. I knew I would never feel about anyone else the way I felt about you. I wanted us to be together. It was only a short step from where we were to where I wanted us to be, but I knew you’d never take that step unless you knew exactly how I felt. Just like now, only now it’s an even shorter step. You just have to take it.” 

He’s trying to compel me with his eyes, speaking slowly, softly. “Take one step toward me, and I will do everything else. I will take care of you. You don’t have to be afraid.”

“I don’t know what to say. This is beyond overwhelming.” 

I wish I hadn’t asked him to tell me this. Knowing how strongly he felt, how early, makes the impossibility of the whole thing that much worse. The last thing I want to do is hurt him. Now I’m backed into a corner and I’m starting to feel upset. It comes through in my voice.

“Adam, I have been so careful not to cross any lines with you. It’s not for no reason. What are you thinking? Do you really believe that your parents are going to go from not being OK with it to being OK with it just because you met this deadline? Do you think the things they are worried about aren’t real issues? For them, or for you, or for me for that matter? Your life and career and mine are not going in the same direction. And I know you don’t like this, but any relationship will be a huge problem for your career right when you’re ready to conquer the world. I would be a disaster.” He’s listening, but a frown is spreading. “I do love you. You are my best friend. If things were different, they’d be different, but they’re not. This is how it is.”

He is frustrated. “Stop it. Stop being so rational. Love is not rational. Love is not in your mind; it’s in your heart. Look there and tell me what you find. Then we can worry about everything else.”

“Adam—”

He cuts me off sharply. “You said you’d try.”

“Yes. I did. I will. Just don’t... get your hopes up.”

He is definitely aggravated, muttering to himself, shaking his head. I can only sit here, feeling bad. After a while, he speaks to me again.

“I’m sorry. This was too much, too fast. I just don’t want to wait any longer. I want this now.”

“Don’t be sorry. It wouldn’t have made any difference. Let’s just not talk about it anymore. I need to be quiet.”

By the time we land I’m feeling pretty grim and it shows. His confidence is starting to falter. When we deplane, we find we have a string of texts from Saraiya. Those girls at the airport posted their selfies, of course. Fans who have been waiting for his return have figured out what flight he’s on. There’s a group at the airport waiting to welcome him home. Security is waiting for us at the gate.

Saraiya doesn’t mince words. “So far nobody outside the team knows about your trip. People will find out now unless you manage this.”

It’s screamingly obvious that this is exactly what I meant when I said he can’t have a girlfriend. He’s unhappy about it. But we have to have a plan, so I lay it out. He’ll go first, do the greeting, and leave by himself. I’ll stay at the gate and wait for security to tell me that the fans have cleared out, then I’ll go home alone. I assure him it’s a minor inconvenience.

I have a little more to tell him. “I’m going to take tomorrow off. Wednesday, I have to fly to Incheon for that job. I’m taking the overnight ferry to Qingdao, then I’m flying back on Thursday. So. I’ll talk to you Friday.”

He doesn’t like it. “You’re not going to talk to me for three days?”

“I need time to think.”

Now he’s getting agitated. Security is waiting to get the show on the road, but he waves them off. His voice is low and insistent. “No, you don’t need time to think. Thinking is your problem. Feeling is the answer.”

“Think, feel, whatever, I need time alone to do it.” I will try, I said I would, but I’m pretty sure my answer is going to have to be no.

I think he can tell. 

He steps closer and puts his hand on my shoulder, the most intimate gesture he can make in such a public place. Looking down at me with the most solemn dark eyes, my beautiful best friend says, “Then think about this. Who are you going to love more than you love me? Who will love you more than I do? Who would be a better husband for you, a better father for your kids? Katya, I know you. I know you can walk away from a man you love. But please. Don’t.”

There is nothing I can say to that. I sit down at the gate to wait, my heart hammering, as the guards lead him away. Before he disappears, he gives me one last apprehensive look.


	49. Disaster

It’s been two days and nights. I’m on the ferry to Qingdao now. This is by far my easiest assignment yet. Watch two storage containers get loaded onto the ferry, ride across with them, watch them get unloaded. Text a number if they don’t get on or off. I’m literally babysitting baggage. 

The ferry is dated but at least looks seaworthy. What it lacks, though, is reliable wi-fi or cellular service. So it looks like I have nothing to distract me from my soul-searching. My thoughts just go round and round.

It would be so easy to say yes. Do what he wants me to, just forget everything and let myself go. Let him take care of me. Let him kiss me all the way to Izmir.

But it’s just too clear; the only way loving him ends is in heartbreak. 

For all the reasons I said, I’m not the right girl for him, not at this point in his career or ever. And there actually are reasons he’s not right for me. I don’t know that I can deal with everything that would come with being in a relationship with a celebrity like him: the fans and their jealousy, the schedule, the scrutiny, the secrecy, the way his career would always have to come first. Plus, my own career, my future, what I’ve worked for my whole life, isn’t in Sanzharistan. I don’t want to be a comet in his life, but I am definitely a comet in his country, and he will never leave it.

We could probably overcome a couple of these issues, but all of them? 

I suffered all summer thinking that one day I would lose my friend. Losing my lover would be infinitely worse. For both of us. 

A lot of women would say that to be with Adam even for a little while was worth the risk. I’m not so sure. It may be better not to love, and keep my friend, than to love and lose everything. 

I’m not sure that I have that option either. If I say no, we won’t continue on as best friends and temporary platonic life partners. That’s never what this was to him. He will need to move on. I’m not sure we would even continue working together. Could you work so intimately day in and day out with someone who rejected you? 

If I don’t give him my heart, I may be out of his life completely. 

Why did he have to put me in this position when I worked so hard to avoid it?

This kind of angst calls for chocolate. I take the stairs up to the snack bar, one deck below the open top deck. Most people are settling into their seats in the enclosed decks below, out of the cold and wind, getting comfortable for the night. It’s close to 11:00, and the snack bar is empty other than other random folks like me, scruffy looking 20-somethings, a cluster of unattended little kids loading up on treats at this hour.

I make my purchase, then step through the hatch and walk over to the railing. This is my favorite deck because it is mainly sheltered from the wind and rain, but instead of the glass viewing windows on the decks just below me, or the portholes on the decks below that, this deck is open to the air. It is a chilly but beautiful night. A huge yellow moon is full on the horizon. Its reflection stretches out across the still water, reflecting brilliantly. 

Of course I am reminded of Little Moon. Which is about me. Good lord. 

If I lose either way, what do I do? Ugh, I’m still thinking about reasons and outcomes, not about my feelings.

He asked me to look in my heart. I said I’d try. 

Is my attraction to him just attraction? I probe it delicately. He has 20 million social media followers now, probably 18 million of them women, and judging from their posts, they are all as attracted to him as I am. The difference, though, is that he’s a fantasy to them. He’s a real man to me. My attraction is to him, not his image.

I have never once let my imagination wander. Now, I try. I’m a sucker for his lips, especially. I imagine actually kissing them, how soft and warm they would be, how I would press that full lower lip between both of mine, move up and trace that cupid’s bow, how gently I would want to just brush against him, how it would tingle to caress those lips that lightly, then just barely taste him. My hands on his neck, clenching into his hair. His hands pressing into my back. My whole body lights up at that thought. Phew! OK, that’s definitely desire, not love.

So I have to face the emotion. Who are you going to love more than you love me? I do love him. Is it the platonic love for a friend or the romantic love for a lover? Is that just a question of degree? If so, it’s hard to imagine this wouldn’t qualify as romantic love. Or is it simply that platonic love plus desire equals romantic love? If so, same answer.

Ironically, Adam’s own lyrics are the best guidance I can think of. According to him, being in love is the desire to give yourself to one other person, body and soul. To rely on them and let them rely on you to the exclusion of everyone else. To leave yourself so vulnerable that they could destroy you. To hide nothing, share everything. Every man wants to share his whole heart with the woman he loves. Everything he feels. Everything he is.

You can love a friend without that. You can have a lover without that. But if you do have that, what else can you call it but being in love? 

If that’s what he feels for me, it’s humbling. 

And that’s where I cannot go. It would take just the tiniest push for me to go there. But I can’t. Not with so much stacked against us. Who am I going to love more than I love him? I can’t think about that. It doesn’t matter.

I have a painful knot in my chest. My answer is clear.

My body is suddenly vibrating with some deep sonic emanation that hurts my head and ears and shakes me to my core. The rail heaves up in front of me. I’m stumbling backwards, then falling. I land hard on the exterior wall of the snack bar, next to the open hatch. I’m seeing stars and my back is shooting with pain.

Various objects are falling around me. Everything is tilted; nothing is where it should be. I hear screaming. I turn my head. The far end of the deck is somehow below me. Water is rising up the deck, heading my way. People are trying to scramble up the floor toward me. Some are going out into the dark over the railing. 

This boat is going to capsize. Somehow, I’m not scared. I’m deadly calm. I have been trained for emergencies. 

Beside me I can hear shouting inside the snack bar. I can hear those kids. The hatch is open next to me, tilted at a confusing angle. Despite the pain in my back, I can move. The water is moving up the deck steadily. I don’t have much time. I go in and grab the first kid I see. The lights are still on. The kitchen is sideways, everything is moving, slowly rotating into incomprehensible positions. 

I shove the kid out the hatch. I grab another and shove it out too. Water is now pouring through the hatch, soaking my legs, and the floor is tilting more. The next kid is little. I pick it up and take it through the hatch myself. I can see people outside the railing clinging to the side of the ferry, maybe eight feet away, pulling the first two kids over the rail. I drag myself up the floor and pass the kid to one of them and slide back down into the freezing water. 

The hatch will be submerged in another minute. I go through. The lights are flickering now and there’s fire and smoke coming from the kitchen area. The water is already up to my waist. How can this be happening so fast? People are bobbing in the water at the other end, trying to move toward the hatch. I grab the last little kid and have to half swim to the hatch with her. Outside, I swim and then wade to the rail and pass her to the hands reaching through. Nobody is coming back in to help.

I think I have one last chance. I turn back and pull myself along some kind of ledge along the exterior wall of the snack bar, which is now nearly vertical instead of horizontal. The screams coming from inside are terrified, panicked. My mind is calm but I think my heart will explode from the adrenaline. Then something big crashes down on top of me. I see fireworks. It hurts as much as my back. My ears are ringing, or I might be screaming, or maybe that sound is coming from somewhere outside me. 

Whatever fell on me has pinned my arm. It’s squeezing, twisting, crushing. I’m trapped. The water is up to my chest. Somehow there is still light and I see something with a handle floating within reach of my other arm. I grab it and try to lever it between the ledge and whatever has fallen on it. The pain is excruciating. I’m sure my arm or back or both are broken. I can’t faint, I have to get loose. I have the handle jammed in the gap but with my arm pinned and the water up to my chin, I can’t get on top of the handle to use my weight to create leverage. 

Then there’s a lurch and I’m under water completely. It’s pitch black, freezing. I pull and pull on the handle. I can hear groaning and squealing of metal under water. My lungs are bursting. My vision is going black. So this is how I die.

Somehow, the vice grip on my arm loosens. It’s free. While the rest of my body freezes, my arm and shoulder are on fire. I kick, not knowing what direction to go, but my head breaks the surface and I gulp air and water. I can still see just a bit of the hatch opening, almost submerged. The railing is disappearing on my other side.

I turn toward the hatch and kick – those people! – but I feel hands on me and I’m being dragged away, out toward the railing. The opening between the railing and the ceiling is going under fast. I’m pulled through. A life raft is right there. People are detaching it from the ferry. I see the face of one of the kids I pulled out. I have no idea how long it has been since this started. Two minutes? Ten? I’m hauled into the raft over my ruptured arm. The pain turns into an explosion of white in my brain.

Now I’m lying on a flat surface under the open sky. I see lights swinging overhead. People are kneeling over me. I’m both freezing and burning. My arm is 1000 supernovas going off. My back is almost as bad. Something is wrong with my head. I pass out. 

Now I’m in a cavernous, painfully bright white room, painted pipes and vents above me. It looks nautical and medical. Someone is doing something to my hurt arm. I see an IV bag. Blurry faces. The pain fades away into blissful nothingness, then the light dims out.

Noise, motion, buzzing, voices going on and on as I drift in and out. Machines. People. Is it minutes or hours? Days? Darkness again.

I’m in a wheelchair now. I see a wooden boardwalk below my feet, then concrete. I can’t feel my arm or lift my head. I can’t keep my eyes open. I’m drugged. People are swirling all around me, making me nauseated and dizzy. I hear loud voices scraping against my brain in languages I recognize but I can’t comprehend the words. Talking, shouting, sobbing. Papers are being passed in front of me, too much activity and noise. I feel hands on my knees. Someone is kneeling in front of me. A face comes into focus. It’s Adam. He looks like hell. He’s so beautiful. I think I’m crying. “I’ve got you,” he says. He fades away.

I’m in a bed in a small, elegant, wood-paneled room. It’s loud and I’m vibrating. Everything hurts. He’s sitting on the bed next to me. “We’ll be home soon.” I close my eyes.


	50. Waking Up

I wake up in a giant bed in what looks like an ornate hotel room. It’s finally quiet and dark. There’s a desk, side chairs, a couple of open doors, light spilling through one of them. I don’t know where I am. I try to get up but pain shoots through me. Everything hurts. My arm is in a bulky splint and strapped to my body. I can hear voices that I don’t understand. It sounds like Sanzhar. I have at least learned to say “Hello” in the Sanzhar language, so I call out. 

“Sálem?” After a moment, someone appears. It’s Adam’s mother.

She speaks to somebody outside the door. There’s a commotion, then Adam comes in. He looks a mess, unshaven, unkempt. He sits next to me on the edge of the bed. 

“Where am I?” I’m too tired to speak anything but English.

“You are at my home.”

“What happened?” My voice is raw and hoarse. 

“Your ferry sank. They rescued you and took you to China. I flew there and brought you here.”

A boat and a plane. A private jet with a bed. 

Children in the dark in the snack bar. Terrified faces. Pain. Cold.

“It was horrible.”

“I’m so sorry.”

I start to cry. Hot tears just keep streaming across my face. I can see both of his parents standing in the doorway with looks of such sympathy on their faces. Adam runs his hand back and forth along my hip and leg, speaking soothingly. “It’s OK. It’s over. You’re safe. Now you are here.” He keeps murmuring to me, saying comforting things. I drift off to the sound of his low, warm voice.

I’m underwater, freezing, then surface to the sound of screams. I see contorted faces, arms outstretched to me, but I’m frozen and I can’t reach them. They are sucked back into the darkness. Then I feel hands around my feet and legs, pulling me down. They pull me under and hold me there. I feel that vice grip on my arm extend to my chest, my legs. I’m completely immobilized, in the dark, under water and unable to breathe. I’m going to die here, in the company of monsters that are trying to drown me.

I wake up suddenly, alone. I wasn’t scared on the boat, but I’m terrified now. I’m sweating, my heart pounding so hard it hurts. I’m so stiff and sore I can barely move. A clock says it’s just after 3 am. I’m incredibly relieved to hear voices in the next room. I make myself get up and I hobble to the door. It must be the same night; Adam is still a mess, in the same clothes. He and his father are standing at the kitchen island, talking intently in Sanzhar.

It takes a moment for them to see me, looking miserable. I look at Adam, trying not to cry, but there are tears in my eyes again. My voice quavers out, “I don’t want to be alone in there.” The tears spill out.

Adam says something to his father. He looks a bit defiant. Ismail listens carefully. Then he hugs Adam. It looks very tender. He nods at me then heads up some stairs. Adam comes to me.

“I’ll stay with you. Come on.”

He helps me to bed and tucks me in, repositioning the pillows around me so I don’t roll onto my hurt side. He sits in a chair, completely exhausted.

“Don’t leave.” I’m pathetic but I don’t care.

“I won’t.”

“You’re too far away.” 

Adam gets up and comes to the bed. He lies down on the other side of the pillow fortress and puts his hand on mine. “Sleep,” he says. “Everything will be better in the morning.” It’s reassuring. 

“Thank you for bringing me here.”

“I told you I’d take care of you. I will.”

When I wake at what feels like midday, he’s sleeping there, on his side, still holding my injured hand, lying on top of the blankets that I am under. Seeing him asleep always makes me feel soft-hearted toward him. Waking up with him like this, though, is ten times that.

He senses me and slowly opens his eyes. After a long moment looking at me, he just says “good morning.” He props himself up on his elbow and notices our interlocked hands. Somehow my bracelet survived the wreck. He’s wearing his too. Sweetly, he leans over and kisses my hand, then lets it go. I’m too shell shocked to think anything about any of it. He looks drained, but less exhausted. “How do you feel? What do you need?” 

“I need a painkiller.”

There are a couple of prescription bottles on the desk. He reads them carefully, then gives me a pill and one of those plastic medical cups with a built-in straw. “Here. Don’t get used to these,” he says.

I need to pee, so I’m relieved that Fatima has heard us and appears at the door. She looks more emotional than he does. Adam hugs her for a long time, his chin on top of her head. She breaks the hug and sniffs tearfully.

She speaks to him Russian, for my benefit. “You go get tea. Let me help her.” He obeys.

Fatima helps me stand up. I’m no less stiff and sore than the night before. The pain in my arm makes me dizzy. I have to lean on her to creep to the bathroom. 

I have often thought that Adam gets his loving spirit from his family, and I feel it again as she gently helps me across the room. “I’m so glad you’re here. We were so scared. I don’t know what we would have done if Adam hadn’t been able to bring you home.” It’s obvious that she’s sincere. She calls me something like Kissy, some Sanzhar term of endearment.

I’m able to take care of business on my own, just barely. I can’t stand for long, though, so she sits me on a bench in front of the vanity. She combs some of the tangles out of my sea-water matted hair. I can’t shower yet. She washes my face and hands with a cloth. Then, in a gesture of tenderness I don’t really know how to describe, she kneels on the floor before me and washes my feet, still dirty from my ordeal.

She leads me back to bed, where I gingerly sit up against the headboard. Every single part of my body hurts like I’ve been hit by a truck. My back feels like it’s been mauled. My arm and shoulder are alternately numb and burning. Fatima leaves and returns in a minute with a tray of tea and breads, Adam’s sister and grandmother behind her. They keep me company while I try to eat. My throat is still too sore to talk much so they do most of the talking. 

They explain what went on here while I was lost. The mayday from the ferry went out at about 9 pm here. It was on the news probably half an hour later. With 700 people on board, the disaster was twice as big as a plane crash. Aruzhan was watching TV downstairs and saw the reports. She ran upstairs and told Adam and Rashid, who were working in the studio. Within a few minutes, they had the boat’s name and number and knew it was mine. They tried calling me. No answer.

The women are carefully staying away from describing anyone’s reactions while this was going on, keeping it factual. 

The family gathered to watch, not sure how bad it was. It was another 15 minutes before footage came back from Korean military jets that flew over the scene. The ferry was completely gone, the water full of debris, cargo, lifeboats, people. That was when Rashid and Ismail started calling people to come over.

Of course our mutual friends and co-workers would gather here to wait for news. I am moved by hearing that more than a dozen additional family friends and relatives also came to support Adam, to hold vigil and pray with him. Maybe 40 people here that night. I can’t imagine what it must have been like here. They keep that part to themselves. Adam’s grandmother has been wiping away tears through this whole story. They aren’t for me. They are for him.

I can’t think about that right now. The three women continue the story, each of them contributing pieces. I can barely absorb what they are telling me. 

After another hour, the Chinese medical rescue boat arrived. People, living and dead, were being taken off lifeboats or pulled out of the water and brought on board.

At this point the news gave a number to call for information about survivors. When they finally got through it was a recorded message in Chinese that none of them could understand. The news named the port where the rescue boat would be taking both survivors and bodies. Ismail then called Peter and asked him send his private jet to Izmir so that Adam could go directly to the port first thing in the morning, bypassing commercial flights and layovers.

They spent another hour glued to the TV. Then, after 2 am, Amelia’s phone rang. Right. She’s my emergency contact. A Chinese number. The voice on the end spoke English. Adam took the call. Then, jubilation, tears, hugs.

Peter’s jet came overnight. Adam and Ismail flew all the way to the far side of China yesterday morning, retrieved me, and brought me home early this morning. Now it’s midday.

Hearing all this brings out my tears again. I’m grieving for those who were lost and the people who lost them, and for all the people who spent hours in agony waiting to find out. So many of them here, waiting to find out about me. The same scene repeated hundreds of times across China and South Korea. Doubtless, many families are still waiting now, hope fading. It’s so horrible. Aruzhan scoots across the bed to me and hugs me while I cry. After a minute I feel her arms replaced by bigger, stronger ones. Adam holds me until my crying subsides. 

My face is pressed into his shoulder. “I’m sorry you went through that,” I say.

He kisses my head. “I’m sorry you’re never allowed to go anywhere without me again.”


	51. Starting to Heal

The first week is hazy. The painkillers are strong. I sleep most of the time. A nurse comes to visit each of the first few days, checking my bandages, taking my vitals. She mostly talks to Adam while I drift in and out. I don’t remember X-rays being taken on the medical ship, but they tell me that my arm has some fractures. No bones displaced. Mostly it is horribly bruised from being crushed. My shoulder was almost but not quite dislocated. I will heal. I should try not to use my arm for three weeks, but after that, I just have to be gentle. 

I have a concussion too, which is why I remember so little of what happened before I woke up here. Otherwise, bruises and abrasions pretty much everywhere. Bad ones, but no permanent damage. I’m lucky. The nurse replaces the bulky splint with brace that I can move my arm in. For the next week I have to rest, mentally and physically. After that I’ll be able to walk around more comfortably, venture out of the bedroom, stay up for a while.

I still don’t want to be alone. During the day, the women are in and out of the room checking on me. Adam’s mother and grandmother make me eat and drink. Aruzhan, just 14 years old, becomes my unofficial nurse, giving me meds, helping me to the bathroom. Adam is there during the day too, stopping in to spend some time with me and then going off to work and do things unknown. 

At night, though, it’s only him. He seems to have moved in. An electronic keyboard and laptop have appeared on the desk. Sometimes I wake to find him working there, headphones on. Other times I wake and he is sleeping next to me. The door is all the way open, pressed against the wall, a chair parked in front of it. It’s so plainly meant to ensure absolutely no privacy that I wonder why they don’t just take it off its hinges.

On what might be the third day, Amelia comes over. She has been to my apartment and brought over every soft, stretchy thing I own, along with, thank God, my own fresh underthings. I don’t even know where the clothes I have been wearing came from. The only thing of my own that came back with me is my bracelet. After a good amount of hugging and crying, she and Fatima help me take an actual shower. I’m still very sore but a little more mobile now. We are all shocked to see how battered I am. My arm is horrific; my back barely any better. Seeing it all in the mirror makes me cry again.

Nights would be so scary if it weren’t for Adam. He appears in the evening. He’ll work at the desk some and chat with me until I fall asleep. Sometimes he sings for me, those quiet songs that he keeps special for his friends, and I feel like the most privileged person in the world. He makes sure I’m comfortable and that I’m propped up to keep me on my side, protecting my arm and shoulder. I wake up a lot in the night. He’s there beside me, comforting me if I need it. Most times just seeing him is enough to slow my pounding heart.

The mental trauma is worse than the physical. The ferry went down incredibly fast. The entire starboard side was blown out. It was lucky in a way, because a lot of people on the lower decks escaped through those gaping holes and made it to the surface alive. This is why casualties ended up being so low. Still, almost everyone on the bottom deck went down with the ship. About 150 people. 

I have to work thorough this with the American therapist that the embassy sends to me on what I think is day five. I’m clearheaded enough to talk to him, but still weak enough that I sit in bed while he pulls up a chair. He’s got clearance so I can talk to him freely about my suspicion that the containers I was babysitting were rigged to explode and took down the boat. He tests whether I blame the US government. I don’t. 

He tells me that the people who are calmest during a disaster are often the ones who suffer the most afterward. Great. He quickly figures out that my trauma has been seriously compounded by the fact that my parents were killed in a terrorist attack. This has triggered some of my worst fears. For one thing, I’m afraid that if I keep working for the Foreign Service, I’ll die burning and screaming like my parents did. Surviving the ferry feels like a warning and a chance to get out while I can. I’m not ready to give up that dream, though. 

“What else has this brought up for you?”

“I guess another thing is it drove home yet again how alone I am. I have no family. My oldest friends are the ones I have here, and I’ve only known them about a year. I don’t even know what would happen to my body if I died.”

“But you do have family.”

“No, I don’t. I’m an only child. So were both my parents. Once my grandparents died, that was it.”

“But you have a husband, and his family.”

I shake my head. “No.”

The therapist furrows his brow and shuffles some papers around. 

“Aren’t you married to Adam?”

“What? No, I’m just recovering here.”

“Your discharge papers say you are.”

“Let me see that.”

He hands me a form written in Chinese and English. It’s authorizing my release from the custody of the Chinese government to Adam Zapatenov. At the end is a blank for his signature and a blank for his relationship to me. And there it is. Next to his signature, he has written “spouse.” 

“You know everything we discuss is confidential. Adam’s secrets are safe with me.”

“We’re not married.” I puzzle out loud. “They probably wouldn’t let him take me unless he said he was family.” Even the Chinese government wouldn’t hand a barely conscious disaster survivor over to the first person who walked up and asked for her. Not even one of China’s favorite stars.

Still, I can’t believe he would sign that on official papers in China, of all places, where he is so well-known, where his most passionate and inquisitive fans reside. That was a huge risk. My mind is still not operating all that well and my emotions are all over the place. The therapist can tell.

“It seems like this is stirring up some emotions for you. Do you want to tell me about it?”

“There’s plenty to tell. A few days before the accident, he told me that he’s in love with me. I had no idea. I thought we were best friends. He asked me to think about it. Well. Actually, he asked me to stop thinking and figure out how I feel. Then this happened. We haven’t talked about it since.”

He looks around the room, at Adam’s nightstand, the desk, the scattered clothes, the crushed pillows on the other side of the bed. “Best friends who are living and sleeping together.”

“It’s just because I can’t sleep alone right now.”

“Right. So what are you feeling now? Are you in love with him?”

“I have worked very hard not to let that happen. We’re not going to get married and have a bunch of kids and live happily ever after. There’s no way. If we try, it will just end in heartbreak, and then I lose everything – him, my friends, my job, my whole life. Of course if I turn him down, I’ll probably lose it all anyway. But at least my heart won’t be broken.”

“So you don’t want to fall in love, or admit that you are in love, because you’re afraid of getting hurt.”

“Sounds pretty cowardly when you put it that way.”

“It’s the most normal thing in the world. It sounds like you have somethings to work through there, but it’s fine for you to back burner that for now. It doesn’t look like he’s going anywhere.”


	52. Coming Out

The second and third weeks are a lot better. I improve slowly but steadily. The bandages on my arm have been decreasing from splint to brace to sling to gauze. I’m able to move more and I am feeling like myself. The prescription bottle disappears, replaced by ibuprofen. I’m sure I didn’t use all the opioids. This family takes drugs and alcohol seriously.

The therapist continues to visit twice a week. This will take a lot longer than my arm and shoulder, but my mind is healing too. I talk a lot to the therapist about my fears. On the one hand I’m afraid of dying like parents did if I stay in the Foreign Service, on the other hand I’m afraid of dishonoring their memory if I leave it. I’m afraid of being alone and I’m afraid of letting other people in all the way. I want a family more than anything, yet I’m afraid of what I’d have to give up to have one, and how vulnerable loving a bunch of people that much would make me. I’m afraid of not living up to my potential and afraid of sabotaging my own happiness by focusing too much on career goals. What a mess.

I talk a lot about grief. I have never gotten over losing my parents. I never even let myself grieve my grandparents. I sort of told myself they weren’t important to me. But they were. And I have a lot of grief around the people who died in the accident, and for the people who lost them. I am particularly tormented by not knowing whether the other people in the snack bar made it. 

Most of my time is occupied trying to work through these issues, and I’m actually a little surprised to feel myself getting some clarity about things I didn’t even know I was confused about. I start to understand that I will do just about anything to avoid losing someone I love, up to and including not loving anyone, like my grandparents, in the first place. Despite how glaringly relevant this revelation is, though, I still don’t have the mental energy to think about my relationship with Adam.

After the first week I start to spend more time out of the guest room. I venture out into the house. This is not the “nicer, larger house” Adam mentioned in Seoul. This a mansion. The guest room is off a great room containing a chef’s kitchen, large dining set, sofas and chairs, fireplace, TV. It’s an impressive ground floor for a nice house. 

Then it turns out it’s really only the kitchen. The ground floor keeps going. Ismail has his office in room just like mine. There’s also a music room with a grand piano and loads of other instruments, a formal dining room to seat 20 (not too excessive given that 9 people live here), and a formal living room. The prayer room is especially beautiful, a three by three arrangement of rugs neatly laid on the floor and a side room with sinks and foot baths. This is where Adam spent most of the night I was missing.

Outside a wall of French doors are a tennis/basketball court and a mini soccer field and gardens that look wild and inviting. I don’t have the energy to explore those yet. I’m told that the second floor is bedrooms, I don’t even know how many, but there must be at least six. The basement is a theatre and game and exercise rooms. The third floor is Adam’s separate apartment and studio. 

The décor is not to my taste. It’s too ornate, everything too richly carved, plastic covers on the dining table and formal furniture. It’s the architectural version of the dated second-world pop songs that Adam sings seemingly under the influence of his elders. It feels like grandparents live here, which they do. I mainly stick to the kitchen. It doesn’t matter that it’s gaudy. It’s always full of family, cooking and eating, hanging out together, late-night tea around the island. It’s the warm and loving heart of the home, a much-needed distraction from my grief.

I start to settle into the rhythm of their family life. They are all busy with work, school, social lives, volunteering. Only the grandparents are home most of the time. Grandmother always seems to be peeling vegetables; pounding some meat into flat little sheets; or nagging the kids to get off their devices, do their homework, practice their instruments, exercise. As I get better, Grandmother expects me to pitch in if I’m hanging around the kitchen. I’m learning a few things from her, which is a nice distraction. I make tea for people, talk to Grandfather, do a little English tutoring. 

Grandfather lives at the dining table, reading newspapers, playing solitaire with a weathered deck of cards, talking to his wife or with friends, loudly, on an incongruously next generation smartphone. He dresses in a rumpled suit and hat every day. He is elegant and wizened. He was a botany professor. His wife was one of his students. 

During our first conversation, the two of us having tea at the dining table, he asks what kind of education an interpreter has. The extended family and all their friends are educated people, civic leaders, artists. He practically faints with delight when I give him my CV summary. Now he likes to talk about geopolitics with me when I have the mental energy. He is sharp as a tack and has a fascinating perspective. He is the only one who seems to catch on that my “running an errand for the embassy” is part of a larger pattern of embassy errands. 

Fatima is very busy, involved in multiple charities, musical organizations, product launches. She is from a well-off and well-known family and has spent her life in the social limelight, a local celebrity in her own right. She’s like a queen. I can’t help being intimidated. She has always seemed just a bit aloof. After a while, though, I start to understand that that is just a façade. Underneath, she is warm and kind, first and foremost a mom and homemaker. She’s listens empathetically while I process what happened during the accident. The fact that I pulled exactly four kids out of the snack bar seems to affect her a lot, as she is the mother of four herself. 

I see Ismail the least. There was a ton of work to be done upon our return from the tour, and I’m not there to help. He is away quite a lot, I’m sure in Dilshad’s office, helping take up the slack for me. I think he’s taking up some slack for Adam too. I know there was a lot on his schedule, but it seems that Adam has cancelled or postponed most everything for the time being, sticking close to the house, to me, limiting himself to what he can do over video calls. Adam’s fans are fascinated with his whole family, and while he is lying low here, Ismail is tiding them over by substituting at some interviews and appearances. I feel guilty. Adam should be doing these.

Ismail and Fatima are surprisingly inclusive of me. They speak Sanzhar to one another, then switch to Russian whenever I appear. I’m ashamed that I’ve been here a year and haven’t truly applied myself to the Sanzhar language at all. I start paying attention, trying to acquire more of the language. I know quite a few kitchen and food-related phrases now, some grammatical structure starting to sink in. 

The kids are all teenagers, the eldest eight years younger than Adam. He looks a lot like Adam and their mother. He’ll be a heartbreaker. He’s an accomplished classical guitarist already. The 16-year-old looks like Ismail, stockier and more rugged, handsome in a different way. He’s into the natural sciences, like Grandfather. They are both very well-mannered and attentive. Even though I am hardly at my most beautiful right now, they have seen me a lot over the past six months, and I suspect they both have a little crush on me. I’m still pretty exotic by their standards. 

Aruzhan is an awesome kid. I am coming to adore her. Gender roles are on full display here. The boys don’t help with anything domestic, nor are they expected to. Grandmother, Fatima, and the poor-relation cousin who is from such a remote part of the Central Steppes that she doesn’t even speak Russian do everything. Aruzhan, however, isn’t interested in following that tradition. She is smart as a whip, like her grandfather, like Adam. She plans to be an architect. I think she sees me as a bit of a role model, educated, independent, moving abroad to follow my dreams.

The kids all love to practice their English with me and hear stories of life in America. Sanzharistan still bears the scars from 100 years under the yoke of Soviet oppression. America feels like the shining beacon of freedom and the land of opportunity to them. Hanging out and chatting with them is another welcome respite from my own terrible thoughts.

And then there’s Adam.

“You must have thought about it. What it would be like. To be with me.”

He understands that I don’t have the bandwidth to deal with his confession right now. He hasn’t mentioned our conversation, he hasn’t asked about my feelings, he hasn’t applied any of the pressure he did on the flight from Bodrum. Thank God. 

But here, safely in his home, out of the public eye and free of his promise to his parents, he is showing me what it would be like to be with him. 

Evidently, being with him means that his eyes are on me all the time. Of course we had both spent months being careful in public not to exchange any looks that cameras might catch, but I had no idea how careful he was being even in private not to show too much. 

It is very strange to have his eyes follow me everywhere, telegraphing his feelings for me every time I glance his way. He makes no effort to hide it. At first, it’s too much. I have to avert my eyes, tell him to stop staring at me. Gradually, though, I find myself looking back. He is awfully nice to look at. Not because he’s handsome. Because he makes me feel safe.

It’s not just his eyes on me. Being with him means his hands are on me, too, all the time. Touching was simply not part of our relationship before, aside from a few very rare and very special moments. The way he touches me now, in front of everyone, so often and so casually, is a dizzying change. 

When he comes down during a work break and asks how I am, he hugs me and rubs my arms. He’s so gentle, so careful with my injuries. If we are in the same room, he’s right beside me, his hand on whatever part of me is closest: on my back, on my shoulder, twirling a lock of my hair, picking up my own hand and stroking his thumb across my knuckles, a gesture that invariably makes me unable to focus on anything else. An arm around me and a squeeze before he goes back upstairs.

At first, his hands on me, especially in front of other people, make me skittish as a horse. Sanzhars know how to gentle a horse. When he feels me tense up, startle at his touch, he’ll remove his hand. After a minute he’ll try again. He’s persistent. It works. Over the days and weeks, I come to expect it. To like it. To want it. But I have yet to ask for it. I don’t reach out myself. 

The family can’t help but see how he won’t give up, watching his gradual progress. Grandmother seems to get misty eyed looking at us from time to time. The boys whisper to each other. Clearly, they have never seen him like this with a woman. Aruzhan embraces it. Fatima pretends it’s normal. Ismail has to readjust a bit. He has seen Adam and I together much more than any of the others, so he sees how different this is. He must be thinking about how he deprived his son of this simple intimacy for half a year. 

Maybe because there is no prior context for our nights together, what happens then is easier to adapt to. Nights are when the demons come and I need him to keep them at bay. He stays with me and holds my hand when I’m feeling vulnerable. He’s helping me sleep, heal, not be afraid. I literally don’t know what I’d do without him. 

All the pillows propping me up make a barricade around me. At first, we are careful to keep it in place, him staying on top of the covers. As the nights progress, he moves under the blankets with me and the pillows seem to end up on the floor more and more. He goes from holding my hand from across the barricade, to holding my wrist, my elbow, my shoulder, now curling his arm around my waist, mine around his, the barricade completely breached. While the daytime touching make me nervous, at night it calms me. 

To my astonishment, nobody seems to mind when they find us like this in the mornings. I can’t understand how they all act like the two of us sleeping together is totally normal, even after three weeks, when I’m so much better. 

While none of the men venture in here, Fatima comes in, opens the curtains, wakes us up. Adam will groggily talk to her with his arm still draped over me. Grandmother delivers tea for two. Aruzhan plops right on the bed and pesters us with whatever is on her mind before she goes to school, while Adam and I detangle from each other. I keep waiting for some sign of disapproval that never comes. I keep waiting for my fear of getting hurt to pull me away from him. That doesn’t happen either.


	53. The Outside World

Adam has always been protective of everyone in his orbit, including me. Now he seems to see protecting me as both his right and his duty. I have not had anyone in my life like that since my parents died. I don’t know quite how to react to it. Right now, while I’m so weak, I appreciate it. I’m willing to entrust my safety to him for now. The embassy is desperate to debrief me but he won’t let them near. He’s also keeping press away. He isn’t allowing me to make any decisions about any of this, or even telling me that there are decisions to be made. I have no idea how they are clamoring. I hear him on the phone and don’t even know what he’s doing.

“Hello?”

Short pause. “We haven’t replaced it yet.”

Another short pause. “Mmm, no.”

Very long pause, during which he looks patient and bored. “No.”

Short pause, followed by a shrug. “When I say so.”

Long pause. He turns to me, smirking. “Katya, are you here of your own free will?” He holds out his phone so that whoever is on the other end can hear me.

I’m puzzled, but I answer “Yes.”

“Call back in a week.” He hangs up.

“Who was that?”

“No one important.”

No, just the American Embassy’s Regional Security Officer. 

Sometime during the second week, I learn that the marine voyage data recorder has been recovered. It contains not only navigational information, but also the security camera feeds. The camera outside the snack bar recorded my whole ordeal, me saving four kids, disappearing under water for a terrifyingly long time, trying to go back for more when I surfaced. I watch in fascination. Adam gets clammy and has to leave the room.

Since I’m American, this “stunning new footage from the ferry disaster” is getting a lot of coverage in the West, which is incidentally bringing Adam more exposure. The night it aired in the United States, the news reported that I was recovering at the home of the internationally famous singer I work for. All the networks grab the opportunity to put his beautiful voice and face on air, showing clips of his show in LA, including one of those moments. His YouTube channel got 10,000 new subscribers within an hour. 

Sanzhar news is covering how their favorite son is getting more exposure in the West. It covers my story too, but that’s an afterthought. “Adam Zapatenov Makes American News” is the headline, not “American Hero Recovering at Zapatenov Family Home.”

He does let my friends come over. They are there the next day when seemingly every news site is showing an instantly iconic photo that goes around the world. Adam had to carry me up the steps of Peter’s jet while I was drugged and barely conscious. 

“I don’t remember that at all,” I say.

“You don’t?” Adam asks.

“I barely remember anything between the ferry going down and waking up here. Just a few images.”

“You were so sedated you couldn’t even tell them you knew me. I pretty much had to kidnap you.” Ah. I was right about the paperwork.

In the photo, my head is on his shoulder, my arm in the splint. At the top of the steps he has turned halfway around and is looking past my head, back over his shoulder toward the horizon. His chin is lifted just a bit above my head. My face is obscured by my hair and his is lit by the late afternoon sun. It’s an incredible shot. It’s the perfect artists’ lighting and his absolute best angle. As worn out as he is, he looks like a hero, a lover, the cover of a romance novel. Every woman’s fantasy, every man’s envy. He gains more followers every day, the fastest rise now coming from the United States. 

Saraiya, new baby in arms, says, “Good luck creating a counter-narrative for this.” 

She looks over at us on the couch, Adam’s arm around me. He slides his eyes over to her and shrugs. Adam isn’t moderating his behavior in front of his team either, not anymore. Nobody says anything, but they can’t miss his hands on me all the time, his gaze, protective and loving. Whatever they may have thought before, there’s no question where he stands now. I’m a little tense and nervous under his arm in front of our friends. My indecision must be glaring. But I don’t move away. I don’t want to. I like it here.

Saraiya says, “I’ll do what I can. I’ll come up with something about you not having anywhere else to go, Sanzhar hospitality, that sort of thing.”

“That should be easy, I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

My story makes it to entertainment news as well, which is even better for Adam. There I am presented as the rumored love interest of two drool-worthy international celebrities. Split-screen shots of Adam and Cho-Ji both looking impossibly handsome in totally different ways. 

I’m no slut in this story. They describe my credentials, choose pictures of me working, headsets and tablets. They make me sound like not only a hero, but some kind of celebrity of my own, a gorgeous, glamorous, globe-trotting genius who deserves to be chased by stars. Entertainment TV has deemed me worthy of either man and the fans are now debating which man is more worthy of me! Unimaginable.

Given that Cho-Ji is one of the biggest celebrities in the entire world, entertainment media milks it for days. They show the few pictures of us that exist, the elevator kiss getting a lot of play. They even dug up a picture of us chatting at the reception in Rome. They get a statement from him, praising my courage and wishing me a speedy recovery, saying nothing about our relationship. An absurdly enormous flower arrangement from him appears at the house, dwarfing all the others that fill my room and the living room. 

They have seemingly infinite pictures of Adam and I to choose from. The one where it looks like we are about to kiss is popular, as is the one of us walking to the elevator in LA. A blurry, plausibly deniable photo of us barefoot on the beach after dinner in Bodrum. 

Although this coverage is great for Adam’s career, I can tell he is fuming at the implication that he is competing with Cho-Ji for me. 

I see some of this on TV and learn the rest gradually, mostly from Aruzhan showing me various things online. It all seems safely far away and unimportant. I live in a bubble with Adam and his family and our closest friends, healing. I come to fully understand that this is the source of his grace. The fans, media, fame, none of that truly penetrates here. Here there is just a loving family leading a normal life together. Cooking, cleaning, praying, playing, making music, having a peaceful, if luxurious, life. 

I of course don’t know how the media is hounding Adam for information about me, about us. I only know that his statement says merely that I will be recovering at his house indefinitely.

Adam finally allows the embassy’s regional security people to come debrief me. “No, she will not go to the palace. If you want to talk to her, you come here.” To my surprise, they show up with my boss and some Sanzhar officials as well. Adam is not gracious when they insist that he leave the room.

I didn’t see anything suspicious. Nobody lurking around the containers, nobody at the port, nobody on the boat, nothing. I’m sure the two explosions came from the containers I was escorting, deep in the bottom of the ferry. I’m just sure of it. But the embassy won’t tell me anything. 

They do generously bring me papers so I can get a new passport. Mine went down with the ship, along with my phone and everything else in my bag. As I fill them out, I realize that I missed my own birthday. I’m 26 now.

It turns out that the embassy hasn’t been clamoring just to debrief me. If I’m well enough, they have another job for me, a couple of weeks from now, and this one includes Adam. I tell them right up front that I won’t do it unless Adam knows everything. I remind them how helpful he was in Colombia. They try to tell me it’s better for his own safety to be ignorant, blah blah blah, but I stand firm, so they invite him in.

He will soon receive an invitation to perform at a private function on Jeju Island, the Hawaii of South Korea, hosted by an extremely rich, almost certain traitor. The United States and Sanzharistan governments would very much appreciate it if he would accept the offer and take me with him.

Min-Ho will be on a security detail for a group of North Koreans who will be flying in, including at least one of the men I met before. I am to connect with Min-Ho. He will have smuggled a thumb drive from North Korea. My job will be simply to get it from him, upload it to a government server back at the hotel, then deliver it into the hands of the US Government upon our return to Sanzharistan.

While my feelings about my own country are complex, I am certain that North Korea is a force for evil in the world right now, and whatever it is that I’m doing will help make the world a better place. That, after all, is the entire reason my dad was in the Foreign Service, and the reason I want to be as well. Besides, I’ve already participated in this operation a couple of times and want to see it through. I’m in.

I’m taken aback by how strong Adam’s reaction is. He lays into them, telling them that I’m not even healed from almost dying for them, that they have no right to play with my life. He’s flushed, standing, his voice raised. I’m able to calm him down enough for them to tell us that while they cannot give us any details, this is part of a very, very important ongoing operation. They would never impose on me in my current condition otherwise.

If the operation fails, there will be a shift in the regional balance of power. Certain things will follow that will with absolute certainly entail significant loss of life. They need what Min-Ho is bringing out. And we are their best shot at getting it. The Sanzhar officials pressure him. Sanzharistan will not benefit from destabilization in the Korean peninsula any more than the United States will. He is too much of a patriot to say no. He agrees, reluctantly.

A few days later, Dilshad comes to the house with the invitation. In light of Adam’s newly exploding fame, he is being offered a staggering appearance fee, way more than Dilshad would even have considered asking. We have a moment of silence upon hearing the number. He won’t have to deal with the international airport. No, he’s a VIP and will be flown to the island’s private airstrip direct from Izmir on a private jet, along with any staff he requires. He’ll have a suite at the Four Seasons. All this in exchange for a few songs and some hobnobbing with the guests. 

I know the government got the ball rolling, but this is legit; this is what the event planners thought was an appropriate offer. This is probably the kind of offer Adam should expect for private events now. We are both moving into new stages of our careers.


	54. I Find Out What's in My Heart

It’s been four weeks. My physical injuries have healed to the point that I no longer need much help. I’m also on a pretty normal schedule despite still needing a lot of sleep. Now that I’m so much better, Adam is willing to leave town again. In a week he’ll be going to Beijing for three nights. It will be his first major media exposure since the tour ended. 

I offer to go with him. Absolutely not, he says, he doesn’t want me under that kind of stress yet. Moreover, at this first outing there will undoubtedly be many questions about the me, those photos, our relationship. It will be easier for him to deflect such questions if I’m not the one interpreting them. His Chinese team will take care of him.

My improved condition and his imminent departure make me feel that it is time to go home. The question of what our relationship is going to be after that is starting to loom large. 

I still haven’t given him an answer and he still hasn’t asked. But the change in our relationship is impossible to ignore. We are not “colleagues, friends, that’s it.” I’m not quite sure what we are. We’re no longer sleeping together because I’m afraid to be alone. We just want to. I’m still in bed long before him, but sleep is fitful until I feel him join me. Relieved, I can relax into him and let go. There is no longer anything separating us. When I wake up, I’m in his arms, or I’m using his chest for a pillow, or he has rolled over and I’m snuggled up against his back. And yet we’re not lovers. So what does that make us? 

It’s up to me now. It’s time to do as I promised. Not think about the consequences like I was still doing on the ferry. Just look into my heart.

That night I am able to stay awake long enough to watch a movie with the family down in the basement theater, which consists of two oversized sofas angled together in front of an LED TV screen almost as big as the wall it’s on. I sit in the far corner of one of the sofas and he sits next to me, of course. I turn to lean back against the fat, padded arm of the couch. I put my legs over his lap and throw a blanket over us while he kids around with his brothers, laughing, completely unguarded, as they wrestle on the other end of the sofa. 

Fatima and Ismail are on the far end of the other sofa, his arm around her while she handles the remote. Aruzhan is laying with them, her head in her mother’s lap, under another blanket. Us on one end of the tableau, his parents on the other, the kids in the middle. A warm, beautiful, family moment. And I’m part of it. 

My heart feels full like it hasn’t since Tuánjié. I am full of love for this family.

“Adam.” He turns. I hold out my hand. This is the first time I have reached for him myself, in front of his family, with the lights on. He looks at me in surprise, knowing what a big step this is for me. He is solemn when he laces our fingers together. For the next minute or so I can tell he’s thinking about it. Eventually he starts to look quietly triumphant. 

During the movie, he holds my hand in one of his, absently stroking my knees with his other. We watch and exchange occasional jokes or comments with each other, his parents, the kids. Soon it feels like the most comfortable and natural thing in the world. This is exactly how it should be. 

And that’s it. My last defenses evaporate. Just like that, I know for sure that this is what being in love is. Nothing has changed; I have been in love with him all along. Whatever silly mind games I was playing with myself, it’s game over.

What I couldn’t admit on the ferry, now I can. I want this. I want to commit myself to him wholly, body and soul. To hide nothing, share everything. To rely on him and let him rely on me to the exclusion of everyone else, to leave myself so vulnerable that he could destroy me. Whatever the consequences, however hopeless the whole thing may be, I’m a goner. This time I’m the one looking at him adoringly while the lights reflect on his face.

By the time the movie ends, it’s the latest I’ve stayed up all month and I’m exhausted, physically and emotionally. He helps me up the stairs and for the first time we go to bed at the same time. I’m practically unconscious already as I get into my side of the bed and he goes to the other. I am yawning when he starts to unbutton his jeans. We’ve gotten so comfortable that he forgot not to undress in front of me. I am looking at him quizzically. Where is this going, exactly? 

He freezes, then laughs, picks up his pajamas, and changes in the bathroom. When he comes back, he slides over to me and pulls me close so my head is in the hollow of his chest. His arm is around my back, mine draped over his ribs. 

“Tonight was nice,” he says.

I feel absurdly happy. I love him, I love this. This is what I want. 

I want to keep this to myself just for a little while. The window where you can love someone without them knowing never comes back. It’s a precious secret I want to keep for a bit. Once I tell him we have to have a serious talk. I don’t have any idea what dating could look like once I leave here, but it’s clear we are going to have to discuss how to navigate that.


	55. Talk With Mom

Before I can talk with Adam, there is someone else I have to talk to. I have to find out whether we really have his parents’ blessing. 

As far as Adam is concerned, we do. He met their deadline, and that’s good enough for him. It’s not good enough for me. If they are just dropping their objections because that was the deal they made, I will never truly feel welcome. Worse, I will always feel like I am a source of friction in this family. I can’t be that; not having seen for myself over the last month how precious what this family has is. 

That puts me in a quandary. If I tell him I can’t be with him because his parents don’t approve of me, he’ll blame them. I wouldn’t just be a source of friction; I’d cause a rift. That’s the last thing I could ever do. If that’s the situation, I will simply have to tell Adam that I’m not in love with him. End this, decisively. Let him move on and find happiness with a young Sanzhar beauty. 

This is a woman-to-woman kind of conversation, so I find Fatima. 

Even at home, Adam’s mother is imposingly beautiful, that model’s face that she gave to her son, glorious mane of black hair, decked out in bold jewelry, made up and dressed elegantly, like always. I’m wearing a nice new outfit, but I don’t feel like I measure up. 

I can’t get a read on her at all. She is watching and listening as I carefully pick my way through what I want to say.

“First, I want to thank you for letting me stay here and for taking such good care of me. You’ve all been incredibly kind and generous. I really don’t know what I would have done if Adam hadn’t brought me here.”

“You don’t need to thank us, Katya. We’re happy we could help.”

This probably isn’t my place, but I need to say it, so here goes. “I’m sure you aren’t all that comfortable with our sleeping arrangements. I hope you know that we never shared a bed before, or anything like that, at all. Ever.” 

She nods, still revealing nothing. 

“I really couldn’t be alone. I needed him. So, I also want to thank you for allowing him to stay with me.”

She makes a wry expression. “I wouldn’t say we allowed him. There was no point in trying to stop him.”

“Well, yes. He is stubborn.”

“Very.” We exchange knowing smiles. 

I’m so nervous that I’m sweating. “I also need you to know that he really did keep his promise to you. All those months, I had no idea that he thought of me as anything other than a friend. I didn’t even start to wonder until after Los Angeles.”

“How do you feel about him?” She’s his mom, of course this is what she cares about.

I haven’t said this out loud to anyone, not even myself. “I love him.” 

“Have you told him?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“For one thing, I only just realized it out myself.”

Another knowing smile. “Last night, perhaps?”

I let out an embarrassed half laugh. “You don’t miss anything, do you?”

Her smile is not wide, but it seems warm. “Not when it comes to my children.” A pensive shadow crosses her face. “If you hadn’t sensed our disapproval, would you have opened your heart to him sooner?”

I break out in a fresh cold sweat. I didn’t expect her to straight up admit that she disapproves, or did.

“That’s the other reason I haven’t said anything to him. This is why I wanted to talk to you. Please tell me truth. Do we really have your blessing?”

“If I say no, what will you do?” 

We are eyeing each other. We both love him; we both want him to be happy. I’m pretty sure Fatima would be just as willing to lie to ensure his happiness as I am. I can’t have that. “Please don’t think about that,” I answer. Just tell me the truth.”

Fatima sighs. It feels sad. I’m not sure this bodes well.

“Adam told us that you’re worried about that. That you have been unwilling to accept him because of that. I’m glad you asked. You deserve the truth.” 

Uh oh. Should I be expecting a red envelope like in Chinese dramas where the parents pay off the unwanted suitor?

“Adam started having feelings for you so quickly that we thought it had to be infatuation. We could understand his attraction to you, but you were not the kind of woman that any of us, including Adam, ever had in mind for him. We told him so and it seemed like he agreed with us. So when he wanted you to join the team, we weren’t concerned. He had never let women distract him; we didn’t think you would be any different.”

She stops, thinking about something. If I had to guess, I would imagine she’s thinking about all the young Sanzhar beauties who didn’t distract him over the last year. 

“But you were different. It was obvious even to us that your relationship was very special. It was obvious that Adam’s feelings for you were very strong. But we still thought it was a mistake, so we tried to stop it before it went too far. We were very shocked when Adam told us that he thought you were the girl he was going to marry.”

I blink in surprise. What?

“Truthfully, when Ismail asked Adam not to tell you how he felt, he was just buying time, hoping Adam would change his mind.”

Fatima looks at the ground. She seems remorseful, almost ashamed.

“We held on to that hope for far too long. He asked us to release him that night in China after you visited that shrine. We should have. There was no possibility of him changing his mind after that.”

I want to be forgiving, but honestly I’m a little mad. The next few difficult months would have been very different if Adam had come to me that night.

Fatima knows it too. “But when you had your falling out, we thought it meant that we were right; your relationship wasn’t strong enough, you didn’t understand each other well enough. Adam and his father fought about it the whole time you were in the Americas. But by then it didn’t matter. We didn’t want Adam confessing to you because Ismail was sure that you didn’t share Adam’s feelings. A man in Adam’s position has to be very careful with women. We didn’t know whether you could be trusted to say no to him if you couldn’t say yes for the right reasons.”

Wow. Brutal. But the pained look on her face tells me that she regrets it now.

“We misjudged you. I’m very sorry. I’m sorry for making you both suffer. I didn’t realize how bad it was until I got to LA. Adam was so unhappy. You both were.” I would never have thought that Fatima would notice or care how I was feeling. 

“And then he had that terrible night. I couldn’t believe that you left Song Cho-Ji to help Adam. Despite everything, when he needed you, you didn’t hesitate. That’s when I realized that you really were the kind of woman that he had been saying you were. And that you must truly love him. You had our blessing right then.”

She sighs. “We told him so, but we still asked him to keep his promise and wait those last few more weeks, until the tour was over.”

Well, that explains a lot. And there’s my answer. We do have their blessing. It’s real. But she’s not done.

“During the accident, when we feared the worst, Adam was devastated. It was so much worse because he knew – we all knew – that you could have had at least had a few months together if we hadn’t been so narrow minded. To think that I had deprived my own child of his chance at love was the worst feeling I had ever had. If you hadn’t come home, I’m not sure he would ever have forgiven us. But you did, and now you’re here.”

Fatima takes my hand between hers and smiles at me wistfully. I feel for her. She’s giving her baby boy to another woman.

“After this month, it’s so clear. I should never have thought of you as a foreigner. I should have thought of you as the woman that God brought from halfway around the world just to be with my son. If you are ready to accept him now, I will be proud and happy to call you daughter.”

Whoa now. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Still, this puts a hard lump in my throat. I can’t respond right away.

I hear a voice behind me. “And I want you to be my sister.” I turn. Aruzhan and Grandmother have been listening from the doorway. Grandmother says, “We all feel the same. Stay with us.”

I hoped for a blessing. I did not dream I would be invited in like this. 

The road that I have wanted to walk my entire life is opening before me. A man I love, a family that won’t go anywhere. Friends I could have for life. I would never have to be alone again. I would never have to worry that any little thing could make me lose everything. Between this and my career, my life could look a lot like the life I lost as a child. Even better.

I can’t believe this is real. Tears well. Fatima leans in and hugs me. In a moment I feel Aruzhan sit behind me and hug me as well, her head on my shoulder. Grandmother, standing, puts her arms around all of us.


	56. I Confess

I feel a little gypped. Adam got to take me on an incredible trip and confess his feelings to me in the most romantic setting imaginable. I could put on a clean t-shirt and take him out to the dried-up early November garden? Not very romantic. Wait until after Beijing and invite him to my place? Dinner out? He probably can’t do either of those things. I don’t know.

In the meantime, we go to bed at the same time again that night and the next and the next, which is starting to get very tricky. As we lay in each other’s arms in the dark, drifting off together, I am feeling well enough to experience some decidedly physical urges toward the man in my bed. He is struggling too. One night I wake up and feel his hands roaming. I’m not sure he’s entirely awake. I pretend to be asleep, enjoying the feeling of his hands on my body. After a minute, he seems to realize what he’s doing. He gets up and leaves the room.

“You must have thought about it. What it would be like. To be with me.”

Even now, I have not imagined what it would be like to be with him in that sense. No mean feat, given the skillful techniques he employs in his profession to get every woman in the world, including me, to imagine it like crazy. You’d think a girl would fantasize, but I just can’t. Of all the places I have not let my mind go, this is the most forbidden. The furthest I have ever gone was on the ferry, the one and only time I let myself imagine kissing him.

The fact is, one of the very big unknowns about dating is that I don’t even know if we will kiss, much less do anything else. Of course I know that neither of us has had any kind of sex life in the last year or so, but neither of us has ever said a single word about our sex lives before that. I am totally in the dark.

The thing is, while he may not be the strictest adherent, he takes his faith seriously. When it comes to sinning, the rule is, don’t do the sin, and don’t put yourself in a position where you are at risk of doing the sin. If you think you might do the sin, do whatever you can to avoid it, up to and including starving yourself so you can’t do the sin. Only do a sin if it is absolutely the only way to avoid doing a worse sin. I don’t know how he applies this to physical intimacy outside marriage (definitely a sin), but given how he is with women generally, I have a strong suspicion. 

But this conversation is going to have to happen somehow. I need to know what happens when I leave. If physical intimacy is off the table in private and we still have to maintain separation in public, “dating” is going to look pretty much exactly like not dating did. I don’t know how to be in a relationship like that. I don’t know how a relationship moves forward like that. 

A few nights after my talk with Fatima, I am already tucked in when I realize I didn’t turn off my light. It’s mounted to the wall above my nightstand, just enough out of reach to be inconvenient. As he switches his light off, I stretch up, trying to reach my own light with my hurt arm. He laughs at my short wingspan while I struggle to make the last inch or so. He offers to help.

“Let me do that.”

“I can do it!” I’m almost there.

“Stop, you’ll hurt your shoulder.”

“I’ve got it!” My fingertips are grazing the switch.

“Why won’t you let me help you?”

I laugh. “Because I’m a strong, independent woman!”

“You’re too independent.”

He slides across me to turn off my lamp. He doesn’t seem to notice, but I’m shocked to feel his body pressing down on me, belly to belly. He reaches the switch easily and flips it. He is part way on top of me, his angel’s face directly above my own, the glow from the doorway casting us in soft light. Then he notices. The moment is supercharged. He looks at me, startled, then his face softens.

He doesn’t move away. Instead, he lowers his hand, slowly. He runs the backs of his fingers along the soft skin under my jaw, causing all those nerves to jump to attention. The furrow in his brow, his parted lips, the slight tremble of his chin all say he’s feeling something powerful. He runs his thumb across my cheek, studying me. 

It’s time. I put my hands on his chest and run them up and over his shoulders. He responds with sharp breath, which he holds in, waiting. I wrap my arms around his neck and look into the beautiful eyes of the man I love. I love him. I love him.

“You were right. I’ve been in love with you all along.”

I feel a tremor pass through him. He takes me in for a few moments. Such adoration. Such love. All for me.

And finally, he kisses me. It’s slow and gentle, a caress. His lips are just as soft and full and delicious as they look. His body relaxes onto me. I feel him with every nerve. I feel his weight, his hair on my forehead, his nose brushing my cheek, his fingers on my jaw, his warm breath, the tip of his tongue just barely tasting my lips. We break and he’s smiling down at me, quietly victorious, joyous, tender, even grateful. 

He waited for me for such a long time. A warm glow spreads all over me as I gaze back at him. I love him. This is perfection.

Now he is kissing me more firmly, exploring a bit, one hand wandering. A stronger tremor passes through him and his hand instinctively grips my hip. 

Boy, do I respond to that. My heart races, heat flushing up my chest and into my face. My body rises up against him. I have to force myself to rest my hands on his sides, not wrap myself around him and devour him. I hear a little whimper and realize it’s coming from me. He hears it too and pulls his lips off of mine with a gratifying sound of his own. He slides off me, breathes out a “phew,” and presses his face into the pillow, getting himself under control. After a moment, he sits up. 

“I need go back to my own room.” He looks a bit dazed. He’s breathing heavily, not exactly panting, but a certain song comes to mind. 

Dammit! So I guess I know what dating won’t include, at least not under his parents’ roof. 

I raise myself up on my elbows, incredulous. “Are you serious? I tell you I’m in love with you and you reward me by abandoning me?”

A smile spreads across his face. He leans back over me and gives me another kiss, gentle and happy. “I didn’t hear you. Say that again.”

Well, I can’t help smiling in response to that. “You’re abandoning me?”

“The other part.” Another kiss. Another smile. Oh man, this is nice.

“I’m in love with you?”

“Sorry, what was that?”

I’m laughing. “I love you.”

He keeps kissing me through his smile. “Oh my God.” kiss “Finally.” kiss “I love you, Katya. I love you.” kisssssss. He sits up again, just beaming at me. My heart is melting, but I am grousing at this unwelcome development.

“Well, leaving me alone here is a funny way to show it.”

“Ugh.” He runs his hand through his dark hair, pushing it back off his forehead, that breathless smile still lingering on those beautiful lips. “I cannot sleep here tonight.”

Despite the high emotion, seeing how affected he is makes me feel a bit wicked. For once I get to be the seductive tease.

“Why? You think things are going to get out of hand? Are you afraid you’re accidentally going to make love to me?” 

He’s not used to being on the other end of that. He blinks and manages to look both shy and slightly predatory. He really is unbelievably hot. Giving in to it is an interesting sensation.

“Not accidentally.”

“So this is how it’s going to be?” I ask. 

He nods. “For now, yes.”

“And when does ‘now’ end?”

“Later?” 

I decide to be serious. “You know we have to talk about this.”

“I do know.”

“We have to talk about what happens when I go home.” 

He hesitates for a moment, then says, “What makes you think that I’m letting you do that?”

“Very funny. It’s time. I’m pretty much all healed.” I’m actually a little nervous, but I plow ahead. “So, how are we going to do this? Are we dating now? What does that even look like?”

“Yes, I understand. We have to talk about everything now. There are things I need to tell you. Only not quite yet. Not tonight.” He is treading very carefully. It’s making me wary. 

“When?”

“I’m not sure. When you’re ready.”

“Whatever you have to tell me, I’m pretty sure I’m ready.”

“Mmm. I don’t think so. Not yet.” He looks evasive. Good lord, what is it? Is he already married and hiding of those young Sanzhar beauties upstairs? Is he into S&M?

“You’re making me nervous.”

“No, no. Nothing bad, I promise.” Well, that’s a relief. “I have too much to do tomorrow. We can talk about what happens next when I come back from Beijing.”

“I’m planning to move back home while you’re in Beijing. I’d like to have some idea before that.”

“What? No, you aren’t well enough.” 

“I am. And I can’t live in your family’s house when you aren’t here. It’s too weird.”

“This is my house. I want you here. Wait for me to come back.” 

He is putting his foot down, a strange feeling since this ought to be my decision. I’m not the type to submit. I am the type to negotiate, though. 

“I’ll tell you what. You stay here another night and I’ll stay here until you get back.” He hesitates. I mirror his words, and his flirtatious face, from our last night in Bodrum. “Don’t worry, you know what a good girl I am.”

My suggestive tone seems to titillate him. He smiles again. “How good a girl are you, exactly?”

“I guess you’ll find out when you get back.” Oooh, that got him. I laugh. “Good enough to be trusted one more night.”

“OK. I will stay.” He wags his finger at me. “Be good. No more kissing.”

“You started it.”

I am good. I sleep curled up against his back, deliriously happy, and that’s it. I don’t know how well he sleeps with my hand under his t-shirt, resting on his exposed belly just above his waistband. 

He is up and gone before I wake up. This was, I guess, our last night together until “later.” 

He spends the day preparing for his trip with Dilshad and Saraiya. Ordinarily, I would be prepping him. I want to be useful, so I go online and pull together a little research for him to review on the plane tomorrow. I figure out the right words to use to answer the inevitable questions about our relationship. Ones that remind prying reporters that his private life is off limits while implying that he and his family are merely pleased that they were in a position to retrieve and provide world-famous Sanzhar hospitality to a heroic foreign colleague with nowhere else to go. 

Although I have agreed not to move out before he comes back, I feel like I should start making some conspicuous moves in that direction, so his family knows that I haven’t moved in permanently. I don’t want them to feel obligated to take care of me. And I certainly don’t want them to think I feel entitled to just live here with them.

I see what it will take for me to move out. The room has that hotel-room kind of feeling where there isn’t really a designated place for your stuff so it ends up all over. I hadn’t noticed, but most of the things in here now are his. Toiletries strewn about the bathroom. Clothes left behind. On the desk, more equipment he brought down over the weeks. It’s a mess of devices and wires. Printed sheet music, drafts of some of his current compositions. Personal items on his nightstand, glasses that nobody knows he wears from time to time, jewelry – but not his bracelet. He hasn’t taken that off the whole time I’ve been here. I haven’t taken mine off either. 

My things are mingled with his. In the bathroom, a few items given to me by Fatima. On my nightstand are the new phone Adam bought me and the new passport the embassy expedited. The stretchy clothes I have been living and sleeping in mostly live in my suitcase, on the floor of the closet, but some are draped over chairs with his. This is a couple’s bedroom, no doubt about it.

When he comes home, he goes upstairs, where I still have not been, and packs. I’m getting more and more nervous about his departure. We all gather for dinner like they always do when he’s leaving town. Afterward, I’m standing around the kitchen island with Adam and his parents, having tea. I’m laying the groundwork for my departure, nattering about how I’m looking forward to resuming my life. 

While he’s away I’ll get together with my girlfriends, go the mall, replace my wallet and other things I lost in the wreck. My apartment has been abandoned for more than a month, I’ll need to clean out the refrigerator and go grocery shopping. Check my mail. I want to go back to work, too, get back to normal. I mention how easy it will be for me to pack and go. I thank them for taking such good care of me.

Adam is frowning. His parents are quiet.

I pour tea for his parents, then walk to the other end of the island to him. As I reach out to fill his cup, he puts his hand on mine and pushes the kettle down onto on the stone countertop. He takes my hand into both of his. I’m learning that gesture means serious business.

“Katya, I need to know.” Although his parents are here, he speaks to me in English. I still love his accent, the pauses as he searches for the right word, that low, silken voice. “Are you happy here, in my home?” 

I’m instantly on alert. “Of course, everyone has taken really good care of me. I have felt very welcome.”

He frowns more. That isn’t what he meant. 

My desire to have a family is the most delicate, most protected, most vulnerable spot at the very center of my being. He knows this. “It’s been like having a family. I’m very happy here.” 

He looks down and takes a breath. “I’m very happy having you here. I don’t want you to leave.” 

I don’t know what to say. I just stare at him. I said I’d stay until he gets back. Does he mean longer? Permanently?

“Wait for me to come back.”

I sleep alone that night for the first time in five weeks. I don’t like it. When I get in bed, I look around the room, seeing all his things. They make his absence even more glaring. I can’t stop thinking about him two floors above me. I can feel his gravity from here. I pick up my phone and type “I don’t like this.” Then I delete it. He has a big day tomorrow and needs to rest. 

That kiss awakened a sleeping monster. What I had not thought about at all previously, I now cannot stop thinking about. His hands on me. His lips on me. His weight on me. The look on his face. That desperate sound when he pulled away, raw with desire. Suddenly unleashed, my imagination goes wild. I want him. Bad. Is this what it’s like for his fans, the ones who make those video compilations of those moments on stage? I’m sure plenty of women – hundreds, thousands? – put those videos to good use at night. It’s almost tempting.

Then he texts me. 

\--I miss you.

My heart thumps. I could go up there, show him what a good girl I’m not. No, I can’t disrespect his beliefs that way. He can, though. I type “Come down.” Ugh, no. I shouldn’t tempt him, either. I delete that too and go with: 

\--It’s your own fault. Good night.

He leaves for his trip early in the morning. I’m still asleep when he comes into my room. His presence disturbs me just enough that I feel him kiss my cheek and whisper “Love you. See you soon.”

“Love you too” I whisper back, my eyes still closed.


	57. Talk with Mom

His first day away I’m actually super excited to be going out after a month of home confinement. Amelia, Saraiya, Elena and I will be having a real girls’ day out: lunch, shopping, drinks (for Amelia and Saraiya), the whole thing. They come to the house in Saraiya’s big Russian SUV. I have nothing remotely appropriate to wear at Adam’s house, so we agree to go to my apartment before shopping. 

Elena and Saraiya handle the atrocity that is my refrigerator while I deal with my mail. My address got out after the wreck. The building’s management has stored hundreds of cards and gifts for me. Saraiya tells me that our office has been saving more of the same. At Adam’s direction, they only sent the flowers to the house. There’s so much that for now I just sort it. I find that my replacement bank cards have arrived. I have never been more in the mood to splurge!

Elena notices the mysterious card Cho-Ji gave me, stuck to the refrigerator with a magnet. The girls are stunned when I tell them it’s his private contact information.

“Who are you?” “Elena asks wonderingly. “How do you do this?”

“I don’t know. It doesn’t seem possible.”

I should thank him for the flowers. I wonder whether I should tell him about the change in my relationship with Adam. One date with Cho-Ji doesn’t obligate me, surely, but he has been dragged into all this speculation. I take the card with me. 

Amelia goes through my closet, trying to put together an outfit worthy of four Sanzhar 20-somethings out on the town. The pickings are slim. The only thing she’s truly happy with are my strappy black heels, which I’m not sure I can walk in after a month of socks and slippers. As a group, my friends deem my entire wardrobe inappropriate for a woman of my age, appearance, and career. They don’t mention my presumptive rock-star boyfriend, but the implication is there. Amelia puts me in my tightest jeans and cinches tight the belt from my black cocktail dress on top of a blousy white button down shirt. I can’t breathe, but evidently, both breathing and walking are secondary considerations today.

Sanzhar girls accessorize. Looking through my limited selection of boring diplomacy-appropriate jewelry gives me the occasion to show off my bracelet. They have conspicuously not asked me a single thing about Adam. When I tell them that I got the bracelet in Bodrum, though, their inquisitive eyes force me to admit that Adam insisted on buying it for me. I explain what happened, how he said he owed me and wouldn’t let me say no. They are impressed. Poor Elena is squirming. I almost feel bad that it was at her wedding that I met Adam.

Most of my already limited makeup went down with the ship, so that’s our first stop at the uber glitzy mall we go to. Once I am sufficiently glamorous and $400 lighter, the four of us have lunch, somewhere that we can see and be seen, and we are definitely seen. People are outright staring at us. It is obvious that everyone recognizes Amelia and me as part of Adam’s entourage. He’s that kind of famous here in his home town.

It becomes clear that they agreed ahead of time that my grilling would occur over lunch. As soon as we order, I feel them staring at me. Amelia, of course, takes the lead.

“So. What’s new?” She’s practically leering.

I laugh. “I don’t know what I’m allowed to say.”

“If he wanted to keep your relationship secret from us, he blew that already. So spill it. What is your status?”

I can’t stop grinning. “You’d think that would be easy to answer. I’ll tell you what I can. But seriously, cone of silence here. This is for me and my girlfriends. This is not for your husbands, or your diaries, or anyone else. Do you promise?”

Elena deadpans “I promise that I will not discuss Adam’s love life with Lukpan. Ever. “ 

Saraiya says “Promise.”

Amelia snorts “What husband? Adam tells Rashid everything and Rashid won’t tell me anything.” She’s impatient. “Things obviously changed after LA, so start there. What happened? We all know he lost it because you went out with Cho-Ji. Did he confess his love after you came and got him?”

I laugh. “No, nothing like that.” –You know I love you, right? –Love you too. Saraiya and Elena weren’t on tour with us. They didn’t witness our falling out. “I guess I have to start before that.” I explain hearing his comment in the studio and the aftermath, me pulling away, him trying to bring me back, me focusing on my future career.

At one point, Elena gives me a careful look and says, “Isn’t that true, though? Aren’t you still going to move to Moscow at some point?”

I have been avoiding thinking about this. “Well, yes. It is true. I have to figure that out.” A little flush of dread and anxiety rises up in me. I push it down.

Thanks to Adam’s hovering, this is the first time I have seen all three of my girls alone since before the Americas. I haven’t had a chance to tell anyone about my date with Cho-Ji, since even before Bodrum I was pretty sure Adam would never want to hear about it. 

It is bizarre to have to navigate what I can say because my date is covered by a nondisclosure agreement. The whole world already knows that we went on a date, so I can acknowledge that that much. They hang on my every word as I tell them what I can. Dancing, talking, how fun it was. No mention of secret wife, of course, or anything about Cho-Ji’s life. They can’t decide whether to be relieved or disappointed that the elevator kiss was just a hello peck on the cheek. 

Then Adam’s meltdown. I tell them about him trying to stop me from doing out, me saying I’d spend the night making out with Cho-Ji or even do more if I felt like it. Elena is outraged. Adam’s fans would be pleased to know that they have a representative ready to take my head off if I ever do him any harm. Saraiya, knowing about my Cho-Ji obsession, is amazed. “I can’t believe you left an actual date with Song Cho-Ji because Adam was throwing a tantrum.”

“You saw the pictures. He was in trouble; I had to help him. When I got him out of that club, he was just so miserable. I knew it was at least partly because how things were between us. And something happened to me. I just really, really didn’t want to be apart any more. So I let it go and made up with him.”

“How, what did you do?”

“I told him I loved him. He said he loved me too.” All three of the girls gasp at that. “But I didn’t mean it romantically and I didn’t think he did either. Still, all the bad feelings just melted away.”

Elena can barely squeak out her next question. “What happened at the hotel?”

I laugh. “Nothing. We went to our own rooms, I promise. But after that we were friends again.”

“Friends? Please.” Saraiya has had enough. “We all saw it. You were 100% together when you got back.”

“OK.” We huddle over the table conspiratorially. “So, after LA, things were a little different.” 

“A little?” Amelia interjects. “You went from barely acknowledging him to practically being his captive.”

“You don’t even know. He only left me alone to sleep. It was so confusing. He was acting like a boyfriend, but he wasn’t showing any romantic interest. He never had. No wandering eyes, no longing gazes, no innuendos, no touching, no mention of feelings. Nothing.”

Amelia interjects. “No longing gazes?” They all laugh. “You didn’t see how he looked at you when you weren’t looking.” 

Saraiya adds, “You really didn’t see how he looked at other men when they looked at you. I even saw him doing that at Elena’s wedding.”

That catches my attention. “You did?”

She rolls her eyes. “Totally. You think Vanya cut in on that gross man on his own? I saw Adam signal him to do it. I knew he was into you way before these girls did. I hope you can forgive us for never setting you up with anybody, but none of us wanted to die.” She looks at Amelia. “Remember Amir?”

Amelia laughs. “Poor guy. Nothing left of him but a scorch mark on the floor.” She gives me a significant look. “Adam is not all sweetness and light.” 

Amir, right. Lukpan’s pianist friend. He was one of the cute guys who showed up at a gathering in the summer and seemed interested. He actually seemed to have potential. He went to get himself another beer and didn’t come back. Come to think of it, Adam left the table at about the same time. He came back with cokes for both of us. I never saw Amir again.

“Everyone knew how Adam felt. You were the mystery. So?”

“Well. For obvious reasons, I had worked very hard not to develop feelings for him, but it was getting harder with him acting like that. So I had decided to wait until the tour was over, and then tell him to stop acting like that, give me some space. But before we left ... he asked me to, you know, just leave Rome with him and spend the weekend at a fancy Turkish resort.”

“Oh my God.” Elena could not be more pink.

“I know. Even I could tell that was suspicious.”

Now Amelia. “What happened in Bodrum?”

They are hanging on my every word.

I sigh. “On the first night, I’d have to say the most incredible, wonderful, romantic dinner date anyone has ever had, ever. I can’t even describe it. It was this patio over the sea, torchlight, a booth right on top of the cliff. It was magic. Good Lord, you should have seen him. Let’s just say he went all out.” The girls appreciate what I’m saying. Married or not, they know how magnificent he can be.

“Oh my God.”

“I know! So ... that night,” I have to laugh, looking back at it, “He was being flirty and I told him he had to stop giving me mixed signals. He promised he would.” Pregnant pause. “He spent the next day sending signals that in hindsight were very clear. And that night he told me that he was in love with me.” I describe the whole scene to them while they swoon at the romance of it all.

When I tell them about his promise to his parents, they aren’t surprised. Nodding, they look at each other knowingly. “So that’s what that was about,” Saraiya says.

“What do you mean?”

Amelia answers. “When we were all at the house that night, his parents kept apologizing for keeping you apart. He was ... I can’t even tell you how he was. It was bad.” My heart aches for him again. How awful.

Elena switches the subject back. “What did you tell him?” She’s staring at me over her knuckles.

“Basically I told him that I had never even considered letting myself feel that way because there was no possible way that we could be together. His family, his religion, his career. Both our careers, you all know.”

She’s horrified. “No! How could you? What did he say?”

“He said it was up to him to decide whether those things were problems. He said I had just been telling myself that I wasn’t in love with him and he asked me to consider the possibility that I was. We flew back to Izmir the next day. We said goodbye at the airport because fans showed up. That was the last we spoke until I woke up in his guest room four days later.”

Amelia. “So then what?”

“We still didn’t talk about it. He just took care of me. His whole family did. But he was right. Once I let myself be open to it, it didn’t take long.” I take a deep breath. “So, two nights ago I told him that I’m in love with him too.” 

Squeals of delight all around.

“And?!”

I sigh again. My cheeks are hurting from smiling. “He kissed me.” I’m sure they can tell from my face how dreamy and romantic it was.

Elena is curled up in a ball in her chair, covering her scarlet face with her hands. She can’t take it. We all laugh.

Amelia is surprised at this. “Wait, that was your first kiss?”

“Our only kiss.”

“You really didn’t make out on that mountain in China? Or in LA? Or any of the nights you guys left somebody’s house together at one in the morning?”

“We really did not.” I continue. “And then he went to Beijing this morning. I don’t really know what happens now. I mean, surely, we’re dating now. I can’t imagine what that will mean after I move out. But also... Last night he said he doesn’t want me to move out.”

That’s the final straw. Their mouths are hanging open all around now.

“I have no idea what he’s thinking. He said we’d talk through everything when he gets back. So you can imagine I’m kind of a wreck right now.”

The food arrives. Elena, pregnant and starving, cheers. “So. Lunch and retail therapy, then?”

“Yes.”

Amelia is gratifyingly beside herself over lunch. Evidently, she has been hoping for this from the very beginning. She told Rashid she wanted to introduce me to Adam on the way home from that first meeting. She has never thought a girl who wanted nothing more than to breed and be a daughter-in-law to his parents was for him. Plus, Adam is her husband’s best friend. They want their wives to be close, and we are. 

She tells us how frustrated she had been by our apparent failure to make any romantic progress despite, in her view, obviously being perfect for each other. Saraiya agrees. It’s so obvious. We’re perfect. She hadn’t been able to tell whether we were lying to ourselves or just to everyone else. Elena agrees to the extent her poor conflicted feelings allow her to. If her crush has to have a girlfriend, at least it’s her friend too.

We have a great time cruising the mall shops. I figure if I was willing to drop $10,000 on my bracelet, I shouldn’t hesitate to spend freely on a wardrobe that reflects the person I am today as opposed to a year ago. Everyone loves spending other peoples’ money, so my friends have a great time dressing me up as a less flashy version of a young Sanzhar beauty. With a few flashy items, since my life does include flashy occasions from time to time now.

To my embarrassment, they drag me into a luxury lingerie shop. 

Amelia minces no words. Since she brought all my stretch-wear to Adam’s house while I was recovering, she knows exactly what is going on into my lingerie drawer. “Honey, your underwear situation is pathetic, but at least you have underwear. You have nothing suitable for a night of passion.”

I can feel myself turning red. My mind goes to that instant of restraint slipping, his fingers tightening on my hip, the sound he made as he pulled away. 

“I’m not sure that’s going to happen.”

Amelia seems surprised. “Really?”

“Outside of marriage?” I shrug. “I guess I find out when he gets back.”

Elena pats her belly. “This is why Sanzhars have such short engagements.”

“That doesn’t help. He’s years from getting married.”

They all nod. Everyone knows that. 

Amelia doesn’t care. “Either way, your lingerie drawer looks like my grandmother’s. You have to replace everything.”

These garments really are beautiful. “OK, fine. Let’s do it all.”

I spend the next half hour in the fitting room while my friends bring me all manner of silky, lacy, pretty underthings and nightclothes. Elena has strong opinions.

“No, no. He wouldn’t like black or slutty. That’s not him. Ugh, not a teddy. Too provocative. He likes modest girls. Something pretty and silky, not see-through. Ah yes, this. He’d appreciate this.”

“OK, I think you’ve put a little too much thought into my boyfriend’s lingerie preferences!” They all laugh. I try to laugh too, but because the word “boyfriend” just came out of my mouth, I can’t seem to make any other sounds. Amelia thinks I’m too conservative, but the rest of us agree that a trio of short, silk nightgowns with spaghetti straps and pretty floral prints strike the right balance between tempting and respectable.

I end up with lots of nice new things. I hope that the women who seem to be surreptitiously watching while everything gets wrapped up in tissue and ribbons aren’t fans who know who I am. At least I don’t see any cameras.

The rest of the afternoon is so much fun. We shop for everything. I even replace my lost headset and, to Amelia’s disgust, my interpreter’s uniform. I have never spent so much money on myself at one time. I have never bought so many things with a man in mind. I don’t know what to think of myself.

Back at Adam’s house, my friends help me carry my plunder back to my room. As soon as they step in, they see the obvious. 

“Wait a minute,” gasps Saraiya. She looks at me, wide-eyed. “Is Adam living in here with you?” 

“It’s not like that, obviously.” I reply. “He was just keeping me company because I was having nightmares.”

Amelia and Saraiya are talking over each other excitedly. Elena seems to know what they are talking about. I, however, have no clue.

“He would know.”

“No question.”

“His family too.”

“Oh, absolutely.”

“Do you think he meant to?”

“How could he not?”

Whatever they are talking about has me on alert. Amelia sits on the bed, hand over her mouth, covering a laugh. Saraiya interrogates me. 

“So let me get this straight. He basically kidnapped you from China and brought you here without you even knowing?”

“I was drugged.”

“And then he slept with you here, in this bed.”

“Slept, yes, nothing else. Except one kiss. One episode of kissing.” I’m babbling. Their humming energy is making me nervous. I don’t know what they are getting at, but I am starting to get prickles on my chest and back. 

“OK, so he very innocently shared your bed and kept you company. What happened in the morning?”

I try to remember. “It wasn’t morning. We woke up in the afternoon. I was in a lot of pain. His mom kicked him out and she helped me wash up a little. Then she brought me breakfast and she and Aruzhan and Grandmother hung out with me and told me what happened here while I was missing. Then I went back to sleep. I woke up again in the evening.”

“So the next day, the women washed and fed you.” 

“I guess?”

“They’re all in on it.” Elena says. “And that bracelet.” 

Saraiya continues. “He bought that for you on your trip?” 

“Yes. He said he owed me a gift.” 

“Oh boy,” says Amelia.

“What did it cost?”

I look at Saraiya. That’s a pretty presumptuous question.

“Tell us,” she insists.

“I’m not sure. He negotiated one price for both of them.”

“Both of them?”

“He bought a silver one for himself.” 

Saraiya stares a me for a moment, shaking her head in a way that makes me feel very dumb. Amelia is laughing. Elena has her fists up to her mouth again.

“Ballpark it.”

I feel awkward sharing the price since it was so expensive, but it seems I have to. “Maybe 9,000 dollars, American?”

“Oh my God.” Elena says, again.

“It’s more than enough.” says Saraiya. “Well, that’s that.” 

Amelia is shaking her head, still holding in laughter.

“Seriously, what are you talking about?” 

Elena shakes her head. “It’s not our place.” The others nod agreement.

Saraiya answers. “Let’s just say you two are going to have a really interesting conversation when he gets back.”


	58. Moving Up

Later that night he video calls me. It’s two hours later in Beijing, about midnight for him. He just got back to his room, an extravagant suite fit for the currently number one artist in all of China. Ah, Chinese stylists. He looks soft and dreamy, creamy turtleneck, feathery hair. He’s puttering around the room while he talks to me, emptying his pockets, taking off his shoes. It’s so normal, except that he’s my boyfriend now. That’s not normal at all.

I ask how his day was.

“The flight was fine. The team here was great, as always. It was hard doing all this without you, but I managed. Everyone was nice. Everything went smoothly. Very long day, though.”

It feels comforting to hear his voice talking to me so casually. He’s calm, warm, serene. 

“What did they have you do today?”

“A radio station, a photo shoot. I recorded a holiday special.” He’s speaking English, making my heart flutter with that accent.

“Did they ask about me?”

“Oh yes. They asked about the picture on the steps of the plane, but no follow-up questions. I used your answers. It was fine.”

“What did you perform?”

“Live on Love and Once Upon a Time.” It’s the fourth single charting off Ambassador. 

“Did they let you sing live?” In China, they usually don’t.

“Of course no.”

“Too bad. I’m sure you gave your all anyway.”

“Not my best. I think it went over well, though.”

“I’m sure it did.” He finds flaws in his performances that other people deem perfect.

He sits at the desk and looks closely at me. 

“Why are you dressed up?”

“I went out today.”

“You did? With who?”

“Amelia, Saraiya, and Elena.” He smiles a little at Elena’s name. He is well aware of her crush on him.

“What did you do?”

“We went to the mall. We had lunch and went shopping.”

“Did you buy anything?”

“I bought everything.” I turn around so he can see the pile of shopping bags on the bed and floor behind me.

“I see! Was it fun?”

“It was. I was ready to get out of the house. And I pretty much replaced my entire wardrobe. No more ratty T-shirts.”

“Well done.” He looks happy for me. “Do you need money?”

That’s a strange thing for him to ask. “I have money. My new bank cards came to my apartment.”

“You went to your apartment?” He looks a little less happy about that.

“Yes, I didn’t have anything to wear out at your house. I sorted my mail too. There was a ton of it. Greeting cards, mostly, but a lot of packages. Gifts, I think. I have to go back tomorrow to start opening it.”

He nods. “Many more packages and letters are at the office. Ask Saraiya to bring them to the house. We have plenty of space to open them there.” It sounds more like an instruction than a suggestion. 

“I have enough room at my place.”

A shadow crosses his face. He doesn’t want me taking steps toward moving back to my apartment. He said he wants me to stay here. I suddenly feel overwhelmed with love for him. 

“Why do you smile like that?” he asks.

“Just because. It’s late. You should go to sleep.” 

He looks pleased, then glances over at the giant bed with its silk comforters and dozen or so pillows. “It feels very strange to travel without you. Now it even feels strange to be in my room without you. Look what you’ve done to me.” He’s being so sweet, half teasing me. “Without you I can’t work. Without you I can’t sleep. What am I going to do?”

I tease back. “What are you going to do?”

A chuckle. “Wait until you find out what I already did.” Hmmm, mysterious.

As we say goodnight, he kisses the camera, then looks at me, then kisses it twice more, boyish and happy and unreserved. 

“You’d get a million likes if I posted that on Instagram.” Seriously, I should record that. It would be a #1 trending gif in no time, at least in this part of the world.

He pretends to be offended. “Only a million?”

I’m going to make him wait for my kisses. “Good night.” I hang up.

It takes me all of his second day away to work through all the mail and packages. I can’t even face my work e-mail. I thought I’d have a chance to talk to Adam that night, but I just get a text. “Talking to Rashid. It will be a while. Sleep well.” It’s just as well. I have one more day and night before he comes home and we talk about where we go from here. 

Of course it’s still on my mind when I wake up on day three. The question where we go from here is both pressing and literal. Do I go home or not? This is the day I would be doing that if I hadn’t agreed to stay until he gets back.

I try to keep myself busy over the course of the day, but by late afternoon I can’t avoid it anymore. I need to have a clear mind when he gets home and we talk. I strongly feel like I should go home. Despite the last month, at this point we should be dating, not cohabitating.

If he were a normal guy, that’s what we would do. But he isn’t. He’s the biggest celebrity in the country. Cameras are still everywhere and people are more interested in our relationship than ever. We can’t go on dates. We can’t be seen leaving each other’s homes night after night. We’d have to hide out at the office and friends’ houses. Not much opportunity for kisses, much less anything else. No thanks.

If we want to have any kind of private life, staying here is best. Between tinted car windows and the guard at the community gate, we could keep it secret. Plus, I really don’t want to leave. Having tea together in the morning, hanging around the kitchen, seeing each other whenever we want, all those casual touches, maybe a little more than that now – I don’t want to give any of that up. 

He doesn’t want to either. He’s probably thinking that I can live in the guest room while he lives upstairs maintaining our chastity. That just isn’t an option for me at all. I’d feel like the underage daughter of some medieval lord, living with the family of her betrothed until she comes of age. Not really part of the family. No. I can’t be a permanent house guest. I would rather move out. 

I don’t want to leave and I can’t live down here. Living upstairs with him is the only option that appeals to me. One thing I really don’t want to give up is sleeping with him. I have not liked these nights alone. I don’t want to just sleep, either. And therein lies the problem. It’s pretty clear that we can’t sleep together in any sense as long as we’re not married.

Obviously he’s nowhere near that. 

Is he?

I have to think about this. 

In his tradition, you don’t wait. When you fall in love, you get married. You don’t play around, you don’t drag your feet, you don’t hedge your bets in case somebody better comes along, you don’t spend years figuring out whether you are sufficiently compatible.

He told his parents he was thinking about marrying me seven months ago. That’s what he wanted them to bless. He basically started treating me like we were married when we got back from LA. We even joked about it. Maybe you are my wife and you just don’t know it. His final pitch at the airport after Bodrum was that nobody would be a better husband to me. He even told the Chinese government that he was my husband.

This is a lightning bolt. He didn’t want to say what dating looks like because he’s not thinking about dating at all. He wants to get married. This is what he meant when he said he’s happy having me in his home, that he doesn’t want me to leave. 

Good Lord, is he thinking of proposing when he gets back from Beijing? No, of course not. This is what he thinks I’m not ready to hear. He felt like he moved too fast in Bodrum. He won’t propose until he’s sure I’m ready to say yes.

Obviously I’m nowhere near that. 

Am I? 

I have to think about this.

My parents got married three months after they met and had fifteen wonderful years together. I’ve known Adam more than a year already. 

What would dating teach us that we don’t already know, especially after this last month? What would we build that we haven’t already built? What, exactly, is the purpose of waiting?

We’re already as close as lovers. Who am I going to love more than I love him? Nobody. Who’s going to love me more than he does? Nobody. Who would make a better husband or father? I have never known any man as devoted to family as he is. He has more than proved his devotion to me. He is my best friend, the person I love and respect and trust and enjoy more than anyone else. 

He’s not perfect, but everyone has flaws, and at least I know what his are. That jealousy, that possessiveness and tendency to be controlling, those are the things that could be problems. We’ll have to manage that. I have flaws that have to be managed too. I am too independent, not willing to share my burdens, too quick to walk away. These are exactly the kinds of things that you are supposed to find out through dating. We already know. 

He has shown me what it would be like to be with him. I know everything I need to know. There is no reason to wait. 

This is another lightning bolt. Am I ready? Yes. I am. 

You’d think this would terrify me. It doesn’t. Immediately, my heart is absolutely singing. I want marry him as soon as I can. How long will that take? I think Elena and Saraiya were engaged about ten weeks. 

Which brings me back to my current dilemma. I could live down here for ten more weeks. But no. We’ve been sharing a room, a bed, our lives for a month already. Going back when we are going forward is pointless. 

I’m not staying down here another night. My place is upstairs with him. Who knows, maybe if we set a date, he’ll relax his moral standards. If not, he can just deal with the temptation. It’s not like it’s impossible. Or if it is, he can sleep on the floor. 

It takes me ten minutes to pack up my things. I show the housekeeper what I’m doing but don’t even tell anyone else. When she’s done cleaning up, other than the equipment left on the desk, which no-one dares touch, you’d never know either of us had ever been here. I move that chair and shut the door. Goodbye, guest room.

I’m nervous as I head up for the first time, alone, in the early evening. The double doors at the top of the stairs open into a living area. The room is contemporary and simple, none of the ornate décor from downstairs. Grandma doesn’t live here. It’s warm and cozy. The space is made for entertaining. 

There’s a setup halfway between a wet bar and a kitchenette. Off to the side is a bathroom with a shower. A big TV on the wall, an impressive sound system, naturally. The sofa looks sleepable if it comes to that. Very nice. A trophy case crammed with all manner of awards, others overflowing onto other furniture. His Vocal Performance of the Year trophy is right up front. 

The room has floor-to-ceiling windows. I can see a perfect view of glamorous, modern downtown Izmir from here. To the right are glass doors that lead to a rooftop patio. Looks like a firepit, a grill, and even a hot tub out there. I’m excited for a moment, then the thought of being submerged in water makes me queasy. I’m still recovering. 

Other double doors lead off to the left. I go through them and enter a wide hallway. The length of it is hung with pictures of Adam, of course, like so much of the house. The first door on my left opens into a bedroom that he is using as a closet and dressing room. On two walls are racks of his stage costumes, many hanging in dry cleaning bags. Lots of leather, lots of bling. All manner of jackets, suits of every color and fabric. Probably a dozen different tuxedos, including my favorite. Some traditional costumes fit for a prince. A floor to ceiling rack of every imaginable kind of footwear. 

A third wall has regular clothes. Cubbies full of what must be hundreds of t-shirts. T-shirts are a favorite fan gift. Sweaters, jeans, caps, outerwear. The fourth wall is entirely mirrored. Well, a man doesn’t look that good by accident. Leaning up along the bottom of this wall are all sorts of framed fan art that people have sent him, sometimes stacked as much as ten deep. He must keep it all. In the middle is a dresser. Several of the drawers are full of jewelry, another favorite fan gift. I just replaced my entire wardrobe and I have maybe 2% of the clothes and accessories he has. I have to remind myself that it’s just his job.

The next door off the hall is on the right. It’s his studio. This large room takes up the length of the hallway. It looks exactly like I expected. The control room is full of equipment and speakers. Four different keyboards mounted on racks. Several large computer monitors. The wallpaper on the main one is the picture he took of us at the restaurant in Bodrum. Millions of women would instantly die if I posted that. Nobody could ever mistake us for just friends with the looks on our faces, his hand on my bare shoulder as he pulls me close. How could I have been so blind? I have to shake my head. This still seems unreal. 

A leather chair that means business is right in the middle of everything. A sofa against the wall behind it all. There’s even a separate sound booth, mic stands, music stands, higher quality instruments than the ones in the music room downstairs. It’s all decorated in more fan art, really good ones. This space is not for amateurs. It strikes me as painfully obvious now that he didn’t need to come to the studio downtown except to record the very final cuts of his songs. He came down there almost every day while he was making Ambassador to see me.

The last room on the left is his bedroom. I’m relieved to see that it is not full of pictures of himself, but rather, some nice photos of mountains, lakes, I assume places around Sanzharistan. Nice big bed, padded headboard, matching nightstands. Cherry, maybe? A side chair. Ordinary white bedding. Lots of pillows, a fluffy dark red comforter. So this is it, the bed I’ll share with him sometime soon. I have to take a deep breath.

The large closet is mostly empty, a couple of hanging bars and plenty of shelves and cubbies. The bath is a lot nicer than the one in the guest room. It’s made for two. One vanity is covered with an amusingly large assortment of his products. The other is empty. Good God. I think he has cleared things out in anticipation of me moving up here. This realization suddenly makes me freak out a little. This is real. This is proof.

I unpack. I keep having adrenaline rushes where I have to stop and remind myself that it’s really OK to do this. I’m glad I have tonight alone up here to get used to it. I don’t know how I’ll sleep, but I get ready for bed. I’m brushing my teeth and hair at the vanity that he has set aside for me and I have another minor freak-out moment, imagining us doing these little domestic things together in the mornings. That never happened downstairs. Maybe I’m not as ready for this as I thought.

I change into one of my new nightgowns and check myself out. It’s made of dark blue silk in a cherry blossom print. Spaghetti straps, deep V, mid-thigh length. It really is just a regular nightgown, nothing slutty here or even provocative, really. But it doesn’t have to be to show me off. I look delectable. It’s a far cry from the oversized t-shirts and yoga pants I’ve been living and sleeping in, most of which were unceremoniously chucked into the trash by Elena before the girls left the other day. I might actually wear this in front of Adam tomorrow night. At some point he’ll take it off of me. 

My imagination is rebelling. I can feel his hands on my skin. His lips exploring mine. His hand tightening on my hip. My stomach does another flip. He’s right to be worried about resisting temptation.


	59. What Adam Did

He still hasn’t called by 11:00, 1:00 am in Beijing. I know talking to him would calm me down. I don’t want to call at that hour though. He probably finished his day and crashed again. It’s fine, tomorrow will be fine. 

I wander out onto the patio. The view of downtown is even nicer at night. It’s early November, too cold to be out here in this nightie. This will be a really nice place to hang out with friends. Thinking of something normal like having everyone over makes me feel a little calmer too.

I watch a little TV, something I almost never do, in the living room. Some soapy drama in Sanzhar with Russian subtitles. I can’t focus on it. At 11:30 I decide I can’t put it off any longer. I go to the bedroom. I turn a lamp on low and stand staring at the bed for a minute. I pull the covers down and get in. Oh, this is a really nice bed. Way better than the one downstairs. The pillows too. Luxurious. I check my phone again. Not even a text. Oh well. 

I log into his Instagram – that is still part of my job after all – and scroll through the latest. He has posted a few pictures from his trip. A selfie from earlier today. He’s wearing a red dress shirt and that smile that says he’s thinking something naughty. Red is his best color. It has 190,000 likes already. Three months ago that wouldn’t have happened. Tons of comments about how hot he is. Hearts, fire emojis. Thousands of “I love yous.” 

My professional and personal selves have a bit of a quarrel over all these women drooling over my man. I see one from the dancer he follows with the 18-and-over account. She gushes about how gorgeous he is and takes the liberty of saying she looks forward to seeing “more” of him soon. Wink emoji!? You know what, screw that girl. I don’t know if he ever looks at her content, but the only 18-and-over content he’s getting from now on is going to be mine. I unfollow her and totally gloat about it. I have wanted to do that for months.

Then I hear noises. Thumping coming up the stairs. A loud voice. I don’t understand the words, but cursing sounds the same in every language. The door to the apartment opens and slams shut. He’s here. He came home early. I’m not ready. I bite my lip, hard, and stare at the open doorway to the bedroom. 

Another noise. Did he just throw something against the wall? He’s still cursing. What is going on? I get up and step to the doorway. I stop just inside it, uncertain what I’m about to face. I hear another sound, like he kicked his suitcase into his dressing room. Then, silence. 

Behind me, on the bed, my phone rings. It has to be him. The sound ricochets out of the room. I brace myself.

In an instant, he appears in the doorway, right in front of me. He’s breathing hard, obviously upset. Our eyes lock. 

“What’s wrong?” I ask. He stares at me a moment longer, then pulls me in, rough, and squeezes me tight against him. Almost too tight. “What is it?” 

He doesn’t answer right away. “I thought that you moved out.”

Of course, he saw the room. “I told you I’d stay until you got back.”

He lets go and holds me by my arms. Then his eyes travel down my body, taking in a sight that he has never seen before. My nightgown suddenly feels a lot skimpier than it did a few minutes ago. Prickles spread all over my body again; the reaction I get when anything physical seems to be in the air. 

That’s not what he’s thinking about, though. He is cooling off a bit but he’s clearly still bothered.

“Katya,” he reproaches, “you can’t keep doing this to me.” He is cooling off a bit but he’s clearly still bothered, tension showing in his voice and face.

“Doing what?”

“Making me think that I’m going to lose you! You really don’t know what this year has been like for me.”

I don’t know what he means. Our falling out, which we have not spoken of since we got back from LA, was just a couple of months, not a year. Still, he is definitely troubled. 

“It sounds like you should tell me.”

He considers his options, then replies, “Yes. You should know this.”

He leads me over to the bed and sits us both down. Despite singing about emotions all day every day, he doesn’t talk about them much, and when he does he is very careful. It takes him a while to figure out how to start.

“Katya. Those first few months after we met, you drove me crazy making me chase you. But in truth, I liked it. For a while, it was fun to be the one chasing for a change. It stopped being fun after Korea. You had such a strong hold on me by the time we got back to Izmir. I didn’t know what to do. We had so much potential but there were so many reasons not to pursue it. I thought that I would at least have time to figure it out.”

He’s stroking my hand, slipping his fingers under my bracelet, locking them around my wrist like the invisible handcuffs he kept me in after LA. I’m trying to listen to him but man, that’s distracting.

“Then Rashid told me that you were moving to Moscow. You did not even tell me. I realized then that your hold on me was much stronger than my hold on you. You were slipping through my fingers. I have felt like that over and over since then.”

I’m having one of those moments where this whole thing just doesn’t seem real. How can this man, this amazing man, adored, even worshipped, by literally millions, be insecure about me? The weirdest part is that I’m starting to understand that it’s true. He fell so fast, when I was holding back with all my might. 

“You know what I did to keep you here. The next couple of months went exactly how I wanted. But the time came when I knew I had to tell you how I felt or we would never move forward. The day my father made me promise to wait was the day I was planning to tell you.” He makes a wry expression. “I was in the middle of asking you out when he interrupted us.”

He’s picking and choosing each word, going slowly. It has me on pins and needles. 

“Six months of you believing that I only thought of you as a friend was a big risk. Even though you loved me, you could lose interest, you could find someone else, you even could move away, and all I could do was be the best friend to you that I could be. It didn’t feel like enough to keep ahold of you. That was my first real argument with my father. But he would not give in, and I needed their blessing, so I had to agree.

“At first it was still fine. I didn’t have any trouble chasing other men away and keeping your attention on me. We kept getting closer. The night of Saraiya’s party was almost perfect. I felt closer to you than ever. That night I felt like we were together. Like you were mine.”

I nod. “I remember. It did feel like that.” 

I get a knowing half smile for that. “I knew you felt it too.” He narrows his eyes at me. “Even your thing with Cho-Ji didn’t bother me that night. But between that, your gay best friend speech, and the way we were both feeling, it was good that you didn’t invite me into your apartment. That night I would have broken all my vows. I would have made you mine by morning.”

I try to keep my gasp invisible. I can’t do anything to hide this blush, though. Fortunately, he moves on quickly.

“I felt like that all the way until we went Tuánjié. After that, I thought nothing could come between us.” 

He looks down at our hands, his voice soft when he speaks. “But then something did. The worst part was that you were the one who said we should go our separate ways. I felt like I did after Korea. How was I supposed to hold on to you for three more months if I could not even be near you? Especially since you didn’t seem to care whether I was near you or not?”

This whole time Adam’s hands have been wandering around, holding my hands, touching my arms, my knee, seemingly making sure I’m still here. Once again I’m overwhelmed by the love in those dark eyes, by the tenderness and anguish in his beautiful voice.

“Then I found out that you saw Cho-Ji in Seoul.” Adam shakes his head in something like disbelief. “Of all the men in the world, how could God put Song Cho-Ji in front of you? There was no chasing him away. I realized it didn’t matter that you loved me. If you thought that he wanted you and that I did not, you would go to him. Anyone would. And he did want you. A man like him does not invite a woman like you into a back room like that unless he wants her in his life. I would know. That, and you not telling me about it.... Those were very bad signs.”

Oh God. That was the night that I said I’d let him know I was safe and I didn’t. I was swooning over Cho-Ji and not thinking about Adam at all. I am a horrible person. 

He continues. “I knew I had get you back by my side or I wouldn’t have a chance. I was trying to do that, but instead I drove you away. I felt like I did not matter to you, and then I made you feel exactly the same way. My parents were telling me that meant that they were right about us. You weren’t even angry. You were just done with me. In South America, I truly started to believe that you would be gone before I could tell you the truth. That was miserable, but nothing compared to LA.”

He hesitates at the unpleasant memory. “I had never in my life felt what I felt when I saw that photo, especially after what you had said earlier.” He just shakes his head again. “I lost all hope. I thought that was it. He was going to take you and there was nothing I could do to stop it. I was certain that when we got home you would pack up and move to Seoul and I would never see you again.” Somehow Adam looks even more remorseful than I feel. “I am so sorry for what I did that night. My only excuse is that I was in despair.”

When he looks at me again, it is with so much tenderness that it takes my breath away. “But then, somehow, you left him and came back to me. It was a miracle. I thought, ‘One more chance. Don’t let her think about anyone else. Don’t let her out of your sight.’” He pauses. “Do you know why I kept you up so late all those nights?”

Aha, it was on purpose! “So I wouldn’t have time for anything or anyone but you?”

He smiles. “Partly. But mostly because you cannot hide your feelings when you are sleepy. You show everything. I learned that in Korea too, on all those car rides that put you to sleep. All your defenses fall away and you show yourself. It’s beautiful. I lived on that those few weeks. Then, finally, the year was over. I made everything as perfect as I could make it. I threw everything I had at you and you still wouldn’t surrender. Those next few days were rough. I thought there was a good chance you would come back and say no, but I did not intend to give up.”

“But then the shipwreck. I thought I really lost you, forever.” He’s gone for a moment, remembering. When he speaks again, there is a quaver in his voice. “That was the worst night of my life. I told God that if he would let me bring you home he could take anything that he wanted from me and I would never complain. Anything but you. He made another miracle. He let me bring you home and gave me a chance to show you what we could have. After the other night, I thought you were finally, truly, mine. And then tonight I come home and find you gone.” 

I’m so humbled. There is nothing I can say appropriate to this, so I just say, “I’m here.”

“You have kept me on edge the whole time I’ve known you. I know you love me but I also know that your hold on me is still stronger than my hold on you. I still think you might walk away at any time, for any reason.”

“I won’t.”

“Are you sure? “ He grips my hands, looking at me as seriously as I have ever seen him do. This pause is heavy with import. “I need to be sure that I’m not going to lose you. Ever.”

This is my moment. “I’m completely sure. I’m not going anywhere. I’m not moving out. But I won’t stay downstairs. I want to live up here with you. I want to sleep up here with you.” Gulp. “I want everything.”

My meaning is clear. Adam looks away, thinking. Conflicting emotions flicker across his face. It takes him a while to respond. Finally, he nods slowly. “Then I have a few more secrets to tell you.”

He’s still holding both my hands. It feels like he’s making sure I can’t run. He gathers himself. “Starting with Tuánjié. I don’t know how you’re going to take this. You might be angry.”

Finally! I didn’t expect this right now, though. “Why would I be angry?”

“I did something without your permission.”

“What did you do?”

“Something big.” He’s speaking even more carefully now than before. “First, I need you to know that by the time we went to Tuánjié, I wasn’t just in love with you. I believed that God made us for each other.” 

He’s dead serious. He means this literally. Sometimes I forget how deep Adam’s faith goes.

“I believed that I would fulfil my promise and that we would be married by the end of the year. I wouldn’t have done it otherwise.”

Even though this is the conversation I knew we were going to have, hearing him say that word is pretty dizzying. 

“OK,” I reply doubtfully.

“When we were up there, I felt God’s presence. I think you felt it too.”

“I did.” I’m not religious, but I do believe in God, and whatever happened up there felt like his doing.

“Neither of us could hide anything in front of God. You saw how I loved you. I also saw that you truly loved me.” He looks a bit overcome by the memory. “The way you looked at me. You were so beautiful. I survived on that for months.” 

He means the moment that I thought he might be a literal angel. It never occurred to me that he saw the same thing looking at me.

“But what was happening there, what we felt, it was more than that. Yes?”

“Yes.”

“When I felt that, I knew why God had brought us to that place. When God comes to you, you don’t ask him to come back later. So I asked you to pray with me then. We prayed with one voice, one soul. Do you understand what I mean by that?”

I nod. “That’s the perfect way to describe it.”

“That was very important. It had to come from both of us, together.”

“Why?”

Deep breath. “Because we prayed for God to marry us.” 

I’m speechless.

“He did. I know it. I think you know too. Our souls were changed after that. You said you felt transformed.”

I can’t imagine how shocked I must look. In his tradition, that’s as real a marriage as there is. A couple asks God to join their souls, he does, and that’s it. Everything else is just paperwork. 

I can’t believe this. 

Except that I can believe it. I do. I will never forget an instant of what I experienced on Tuánjié. I absolutely felt like we were in the presence of God. When we prayed together, I knew we were speaking directly to him. I knew he was listening. I felt him respond. I didn’t understand it, I couldn’t put a name to it, but as we prayed, I felt Adam and I become one. I just assumed that part was temporary even while I knew that my soul had changed forever. 

From then on, through everything that followed, our connection felt unbreakable, even when I wanted so much to break it. Of course I couldn’t sever my tie to him. You can’t sever a tie to your own soul.

Everything that followed suddenly looks very different. He was trying to protect me when we sat in that conference room with Dilshad and Saraiya, and I said we should go our separate ways. He thought his wife was saying that. That had to hurt. When he said I was just passing through, he was lying about his own wife. This is what he meant by betraying both me and God. After that, his wife wouldn’t talk to him, wouldn’t take his calls, would barely look at him. His wife kept talking about leaving. 

His wife was flirting with a competing star. And he couldn’t say or do anything about it, and he probably thought he deserved it because he had lied. He thought I was unknowingly committing adultery that night in LA. But he was doing it knowingly. No wonder he was so ashamed. 

He thought his wife died in the Yellow Sea, and he had never even gotten to kiss her. This brings tears to my eyes and my hand to my mouth. How awful. 

“Katya?” I’ve been lost in my own thoughts for a long while. He’s anxious, waiting for my reaction. “Are you angry?”

“No.”

“Have I scared you away?”

“No.” I can feel tears in my eyes. I’m more moved and humbled than I have ever been in my life. I’m sure he can tell.

He lets out a relieved breath and holds out his arms to me. I let him fold me to his chest. I bury my face in his neck and revel in feeling the warmth of his body, the solidness of his chest, his arms, for several long seconds. This is just so unbelievable. He isn’t ready to marry me. As far as he’s concerned, he already did. 

“I have to tell you one more thing.”

I give him an incredulous look. “Are you kidding?”

“What we did on Tuánjié was just between us and God. There were no witnesses. Either of us could pretend it never happened. It’s not legal. So I still planned to make it legal when you were ready.” 

“OK…” 

“I didn’t wait for your permission to do that either.”

“What?” 

“We have another very old tradition that is still legal today. It involves a man kidnapping a woman by, for example ... flying her out of China without her knowledge or permission.” Realization hits me. “If he takes her back to his family home and shares a bed with her, then they are legally married. Or he is. She only is if she consents to it.”

“Marriage by kidnapping.”

He’s surprised. “You know?”

Oh, the irony. “I learned about it the night we met.” I come to another realization. “Everyone knows. Your whole family. All our friends.”

“Yes. But none of this means anything unless you say yes. They know you haven’t. They’re waiting for your answer. Like I am.”

He looks genuinely nervous, something I rarely see. He takes another breath and takes both of my hands again. 

“Katya. I love you. I know it has only been a few days for you, but I have waited so long. I don’t want to wait anymore. I have to ask. Do you want to be married to me? Not sometime later. Right now.”

I was ready for a proposal, even hoping for one. But this? Was it really just this afternoon that I was wondering how we could even date? It takes me a moment to get my thoughts together, but I know my answer. I don’t have any doubt.

“Yes.”

He blinks in surprise. He definitely didn’t expect that. “Do you understand what you are doing? If you say yes then we are married. It’s done.”

Joy is rising in me, fast. “Yes. Yes. That’s exactly what I want. What happened on Tuánjié couldn’t be anything else. I know it. But I do appreciate you making it legal.”

He looks astonished. 

He pulls me tight to him again. He whispers into my hair, “I thought you would say no. I thought you would make me chase you for another year.” We stay that way for what feels like a long time. I’m so happy. This is completely right. 

Then he kisses me. He’s kissing his bride. It’s wonderful, luxurious. When he stops, he’s dazed, half smiling, amazed. I am filled with adoration.

“Say you’re mine,” he demands.

I laugh. “I’m yours.” 

“Forever.”

“Til death do us part.”

He can’t speak. The love in his face leaves me breathless. 

My husband kisses me again, gently, his hands on me softly now. There is no world outside the two of us. I’m lost in a warm dream with his lips, his face, our bodies pressed together, my arms around his neck, his arms circling me, his hands stroking my hair, my back. I love him so much that I feel it all through my body. It’s almost painful. I can’t get close enough to him. I press against him tighter. 

The atmosphere shifts. I pull back. He feels it too. Right. We’re married.

We regard each other, suddenly very conscious of the implications of what has just happened, not sure what the next move is or who is making it.

“So,” I say, “that means I can stay here, right?”

He hesitates. “That’s right,” he replies. He looks down, deciding what to do. After a long moment, a half-smile crosses his face. He looks back up at me. Then he kisses me again, slowly leaning into me and over me, pushing me back into the pillows. Hooray!

“Oh goodness, it’s so late.” I tease. “It’s after two in the morning for you. You must be tired.”

“No! No.” He exclaims. “I’m not tired. Are you tired? I’m not.” He’s got that seductive smile going now, but this time it has intention behind it.

I’m so happy. I’m so ready for this. “Then come here.” I pull him down to me and I kiss him again, this time ardently, eyes closed, mouth open, no hesitation, no inhibition, loving him with all my heart and letting all my desire rise the way it wants to. And he does the same.


	60. Finally

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: The last chapter fades to black so that you can skip this one completely if you don't want the details. This chapter is a little explicit. Move along if you aren't comfortable with that.

After several long moments of straight-up making out, he sits up, straddling me. My heart is pounding. His smile is devilish. He’s unbuttoning the cuffs of his red shirt, slowly, tempting me.

“You may have never thought about this, Miss Innocent, but I have. A lot. I have a whole list of places I’ve wanted to kiss you. I’m going to kiss them all.”

I’m turning to jelly. Now he doesn’t seem nervous at all.

“I’ll start here.”

He picks up my hand. He’s touching it like he did in Bodrum. It’s electric, just like then. He turns up my palm, then bends down to kiss it. Then he trails kisses up the inside of my wrist. He lays that hand back down gently and takes the other one. Again, he kisses my palm, then my wrist, then he releases that hand. He is looking down at me. Lord have mercy, that jawline. Those eyes. Those lips. 

This isn’t a model pose. This combination of desire and joy isn’t something he has shown to the cameras. This is just for me. He’s taking his time with it, moving lazily as he starts to unbutton his shirt. I can’t help it; instinctively I clamp my hands to my mouth. The corners of his lips curl up just a bit at that. He knows what effect he has. I’m not going to be able to hide my reaction.

He undoes his last button. His shirt falls open enough for me to see his golden skin underneath, the line of black hair running up to his navel, dark nipples I’ve only seen through a sheer shirt before now. He takes my wrists and pulls my hands away from my face. “None of that,” he says. He leans over me as he locks his fingers with mine and presses my hands into the pillow behind me. This time, he kisses my lips. It’s slow and sensuous now. For someone so supposedly innocent, he sure knows what the hell he’s doing. He’s setting me on fire. I can’t speak. I can’t move. I can only watch him and kiss him back, quivering. 

“Where next?” he muses. “Oh yes.” He grazes the corners of my mouth, moving slowly from one to the other, just touching me with the tip of his tongue. “I think about kissing you here every time you smile.” I can barely breathe. I have to close my eyes. “And here.” He nuzzles my jaw, turning my head to expose my neck. Soft kisses in the hollow just above my collarbone. More just under my ear. He moves to the other side and I obediently give him access. Collarbone. Ear. My skin is tingling.

He releases my hands and sits back up, watching my response to him, not smiling now. He has turned himself on as much as me. He lets his eyes travel down my body, lingering where he likes. He slips his shirt over his shoulders and drops it to the floor. Beneath it, he is lean and more muscular than I thought. My, my. Look what you’ve been hiding from the world. 

I can’t help but think for a moment. 190,000 women telling him today how hot he looks in that red shirt, but I’m the only one who gets to see how much hotter he looks out of it. Overwhelmed, I want to cover my face again but I stop myself. He puts a hand on my belly, on top of the silk, and runs it slowly up, over my ribs, between my breasts, up to my throat as he leans down again. “More.”

He pushes one of the straps off my shoulder and kisses the hollow there under my collarbone, just above my breast, moving into new territory. Then the other. His hand slides back down to the hem of my nightgown. He checks my face again, making sure I’m ok. I’m not ok; I’m going to hyperventilate. But I’m not objecting. He pushes my nightgown up, over my hips, my belly, past my waist, stopping there. 

His long arms can reach every part of me down to the bottoms of my feet. His hands roam all over me, unhurriedly, touching my skin and raising goosebumps everywhere he goes. He kisses the curve of my waist, my belly button, following his hands. I can’t help squirming, letting out a little squeak. He kisses the dip inside my hipbones. I’m shaking. 

He comes back up to my lips and kisses me deeply. His hand is under my nightgown now, pushing it higher. I raise my arms and he takes it off me. He rises to his knees again and looks at me beneath him, now in nothing but my new pink underwear. His face is flushed. He starts to unbutton his jeans. OK, this is too much, I can’t watch this. I cover my eyes. “Oh my God.”

I hear him laugh. He lets me get away with it this time. In a moment, he’s back with me, pulling the sheets over us, arms around me, kissing me again through a smile, his bare chest against my bare breasts, his bare legs entwined with mine. I’m now free to touch him too, my hands exploring him, my lips against his throat, doing those things I have never been able to imagine. My hair spreading out over his chest. He’s disheveled, dark eyelashes against his fair skin, those luscious lips, so unbelievably sexy. 

He’s starting to breathe heavily, some familiar sounds that are a million times more effective here. I discover the curve of his biceps, his chest, the shape of his back when I run my hands all over him. He’s hot to the touch, soft skin and hard muscle, powerful and tender, so beautiful and I want him. I’m starting to feel impatient, and as we touch each other, my body is demanding more. I move more deliberately, and I feel him respond. The air around us quickens.

We are curled up on our sides embracing as we did those nights that he kept guard over me. I’m starting to feel delirious. He moves down to my breasts. He shocks me by taking my breast in his hand and my nipple into his mouth. I can’t help but gasp. Oh. Well, here we go. Ok then. One deep pull and my nipples turn to pebbles. His mouth and hands rove across my breasts and I slide my fingers through his soft hair. 

I feel myself getting very hot and very conscious of the precise locations of every part of both our bodies. He glides his hand down my waist to my hip, and then slips it between my underwear and my skin. He pauses, gauging my reaction. I lift up and he slides my underwear down. A little kicking, and I’m totally nude. He pulls me close and I run my hand down the warm skin of his back to discover that he is too. We mark the moment we are naked in each other’s arms silently, looking into each other’s eyes. 

Then he kisses me again, harder, pulling my mouth open, tasting my lips and my tongue. He took his own sweet time but now that we are here, he’s not shy. He’s exploring the newly exposed territory freely, running his hand under the curve of my ass, pulling my thigh up over his hip. His fingers press into my skin everywhere he touches. My hands are in his hair, on his neck, on his back, clutching him to me. My senses are full of him. His hair in my face. His breath catching in his throat, spilling over my cheek. Those sounds go straight to my core. I want him so much I’m starting to tremble. 

He shifts me onto my back and takes my hand. He slides it down between us. “Show me,” he whispers. I’m so wild with desire I don’t hesitate or even think about being embarrassed. Our fingers entwined, I lead him to my sweet spot and rub myself with his hand. I know myself well after all this time alone. I’m soaking wet and taut as a bowstring and I’ve never been more ready in my life.

Our legs are wrapped around each other and I feel how hard he is, and how close. I’m panting, mouth open, my lips brushing his, past the point of speech and reduced to whimpering. He pulls back to look at me and a ghost of a smile crosses his lips. It’s the look he gets when he knows he’s killing it. 

And finally, finally, he pushes into me, between our fingers, opening me and working our hands together as he moves. I’m already so close to the edge that it’s not half a minute until I’m quaking beneath him, shuddering as waves wash through me. I want to hide my face in his chest but instead I let him watch. When it’s over I open my eyes. He’s studying my face and looks ready to consume me whole. My mind captures every detail – the fine hairs beneath his ear, the deep crease between his eyebrows, the set of his jaw, the curve of his lips, the fire in his dark eyes. He is magnificent.

His turn. We slide our hands out from between us. I wrap mine around his hip and pull him deeper. He is up on his elbows, his forearms under me, one hand on the back of my neck and the other cradling my injured shoulder. I am enveloped. Yes. Now we’re close enough. He is moving inside me, deep and hard. He isn’t quiet. He doesn’t hide anything. His pleasure is completely exposed, his brow furrowed in concentration, and I get to watch it build to the point of no return and beyond. 

At the last moment he opens his eyes and looks into mine. My senses are overcome again as ecstasy overtakes him and he goes rigid, crying out with each pulse. I take a million mental pictures. The look on his face would melt a warehouse full of lenses, but this time it’s real and it’s all mine. My mind explodes as he collapses on top of me, breathless.

After a few moments, I kiss his cheek. “I love you,” I whisper to him, in Sanzhar.


	61. Family Matters

He’s already awake when I open my eyes in the morning. He is on his side, up on his elbow, grinning at me. He looks happier than I’ve ever seen him. It’s not that intense angelic joy. This is just a very happy man. On the one hand, I’m melting. On the other, I’m dazzled at the sight of him naked next to me, sheets pulled up just barely enough. I’m struck by the line of black hair disappearing beneath the edge of the sheet, more black hair under his arms, A mole here, a scar there, on that light golden skin. All these secrets revealed to me now. So lovely. 

I reach out my hand and touch his chest. He has been waiting for me to wake up. He pounces, squeezing me, pressing his face into my neck, kissing me. I laugh. “Stop, I smell!”

“You smell wonderful.”

“I need a shower. And no offense, but you definitely do.”

He gives himself a sniff, still grinning, not at all bothered. “Fine. We have a lot to do anyway.”

He hops out of bed and trots, bare assed, to the bathroom. I’m amazed at his complete lack of modesty. I guess none of his rules apply to me now.

It’s mid-morning by the time we are ready to go downstairs. He can tell that I’m incredibly nervous. He reminds me that we have his parents’ blessing. I remember that he doesn’t know about my talk with Fatima. I tell him everything. He has real tears in his eyes by the time I’m done. He holds me, kissing the top of my head, then takes my hand and leads me downstairs.

We come out of the stairway into the kitchen, hand-in-hand, to find the whole family waiting, even the housekeeper cousin. I freeze, my heart in my mouth. For several moments we all just stare at each other. Then Adam speaks.

“She said yes.”

Cheers erupt, everyone clapping. Aruzhan runs to me and throws her arms around me, her brothers not far behind. They are all hugging me, welcoming me to the family. Even Ismail hugs me and kisses both my cheeks, smiling like I never thought I would see from him. Grandfather hugs me and pounds my back and tells me he is proud to have me as a granddaughter. They are so happy for us. I’m completely overwhelmed yet again, tears leaking. Adam kisses me to uproarious applause. 

They excitedly pepper us with questions I hadn’t even thought about and can’t answer: Do we want to have a ceremony? What about a party? Who are we going to tell? Can they tell the aunts, uncles, cousins? Will I cancel the lease on my apartment? Will I keep working for the team? Are we going to register our marriage with the government? What about the marriage contract and gift? When will we come out publicly? When will we have kids?

As this goes on, we all settle around the table to figure out the details. This family makes important decisions together. I will have to get used to that. We decide on no ceremony. Tuánjié was our ceremony; nothing else is needed, nor could any planned ceremony be more meaningful than that. My bracelet is the valuable gift required for an Islamic marriage, yet another piece of his master plan that I didn’t see happening. A contract is required too, essentially a prenuptial agreement with a few basic terms about what belongs to who if things don’t work out. We’ll do that later.

Everything else depends on the big question about going public. Right now is a pivotal moment for Adam, second only to his breakout TV performances a couple of years ago. I have missed a lot in the month since the tour ended. The tour and album succeeded beyond anyone’s dreams. That, with a bump from the extra publicity around my accident, have him poised to capture tens of millions of new fans in new markets, especially the English and Spanish-speaking worlds and, for some reason, South Asia. Offers have been pouring in from North America while I’ve been sequestered here, all of which he has been putting off. These are dreams come true for him, one after another. He is on the brink of truly global stardom. 

We talk about whether that’s really what he wants. It is. Fundamentally, he’s an artist, and he wants to bring his art to as many people as he can. He wants to sing for every person on the planet. The fame and fortune that go with that are secondary but important. They bring him the freedom and ability to make music his whole life long. 

Right now, his looks and his sex appeal are a huge part of what drives the legions of his most passionate fans. A fan base with that level of passion means not only a built-in audience, but things like grassroots campaigns for him to perform at the Grammys, the Olympics. A mobilized fan base provides more publicity and more opportunity than any advertising campaign. If he wants to inspire that level of passion in new markets, he’ll need to keep capitalizing on his physical assets while he’s young and hot. And we know all too well that for him in particular, a big part of capitalizing on that is maintaining the illusion that he is unattached.

They ask if I’m comfortable with a marketing strategy that includes actively encouraging millions of women to fantasize about being with him. I’m his wife. That part of him should belong solely to me. I appreciate being asked, although I’m embarrassed by their frankness, especially since they must all realize that my first time claiming that part of him was just last night. Evidently nobody else thinks there is anything remotely embarrassing about discussing a married couple’s intimate relationship. This will take some getting used to.

I’m OK with it. I’ve been dealing just fine with millions of women lusting after him, with one exception, and I just unfollowed her. It’s not like I can stop women from lusting after him even if I wanted to. The sexy beast is going to come out on stage anyway; it’s not like he can turn it off. If that helps him conquer these new markets, he should use it. He presses me on it. This last six months of not being able to tell me how he felt and trying to hide even our friendship from the world were awful. Now that we’re married, his preference would be to celebrate it openly. If I have any doubts, any hesitation, I need only say the word.

However, I have my own reasons to keep it secret. Adam’s parents know that I do side jobs for the embassy, but they don’t know that some of these jobs involve flirting with men who might let information slip in front of a young, beautiful, easily underestimated woman. Men who might invite such a woman into secure locations if they think they might be able to seduce her. Being part of a celebrity entourage adds to my glamour and appeal for such men. Being a celebrity’s wife would limit my usefulness considerably. Just like Adam, I only have so many years left where I can use this to my advantage. In a few more years men will stop assuming I’m just eye candy and be more cautious around me. So seeming to be a single girl right now is good for me too. 

I keep all this as circumspect as I can, but Adam’s family is still clearly impressed to learn about this aspect of my work for Uncle Sam. As I explain it, though, I see Adam’s face darken. He told me plainly that he didn’t like how I acted with the men at Chernov’s party. The other jobs he was part of didn’t require that. There’s a tense moment where I remind him that what’s sauce for the gander is sauce for the goose. We both take certain risks by using our sex appeal in our careers. He lets it drop in front of his family, but with a warning look that tells me this conversation is not over.

The question is how long we’ll keep it quiet, given that it won’t be easy. I will need to stay on the team until we go public. Even though that puts us under scrutiny, hiding in plain sight is also cover. We agree to keep it quiet until we are sure he has solidified his fan bases in the new territories. Ismail and Adam think that will take at least another album, mostly in English, and another tour in these new areas, along with an accompanying heavy schedule of appearances. Probably two years. I’ll be 28 then, he approaching 30. More or less right when he has suggested in the past that he’d consider getting married. And the right time to start working on getting pregnant, especially if we’re serious about wanting three or four kids. When Fatima mentions this, I get lightheaded. 

So this means no registering the marriage. There are probably paparazzi looking for his name in that database every day. We will tell only a select handful of people, about 25 friends and family members who have to know the truth. It seems like a lot of people to keep something like this secret. But we trust them. All of these people have made protecting Adam a priority for years. They’ll do it now too. And it will be useful to have them available to actively dissemble if needed.

There’s a moment of sympathy when I have to say that I have no-one in the United States to tell. It passes, though. My transient days are over. I have a family now, and friends, and a permanent home as well as a job. I quickly repress it when the question of how and when I resume my real career enters my mind. I still have goals beyond being my husband’s interpreter and assistant.

Later I ask Adam, half joking, if he wants me to tell Cho-Ji. I still have the card with Cho-Ji’s private contact information. My husband plucks it out of my fingers and puts it in his back pocket with a harumph.

“I’ll just hold on to this. I already cleared things up with him.”

“You did?”

He pulls out his phone, presses a few buttons, and hands it to me. It’s a direct message exchange between him and Cho-Ji from after the wreck.

–Hi Adam. I know you probably don’t want to hear from me, but I hoped you’d tell me how Katie is doing.

–Hi. It’s fine. She’s getting better. She hurt her arm and shoulder badly but they are healing. She will be able to get back to normal life in a few weeks.

–I’m glad to hear it. Will you let her know I wish her well?

–She’s already in bed. I’ll let her know when I join her.

–Message received. Congratulations. I hope I at least get a wedding invitation out of this.

–We wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for that night in LA, so I owe you something. 

–I figured. Take good care of her.

–I will. Always.

Wow. It really wasn’t Adam’s right to do that when I wasn’t even sure myself where I wanted this to go, but I suppose if I was already waking up in his arms every morning, it was pretty clear where this was headed. Once again I’m so touched by how certain and how determined he has been every step of the way. 

Adam insists that I also tell my boss at the embassy. He wants them to respect his rights as my husband. I know he’s going to argue about me doing any jobs that require me to allow men to grope me or even think that they might be able to. And he’s going to try to put his foot down on anything that might be dangerous. I think he may even have been serious about me not being allowed to go anywhere without him again. I really will have to manage his controlling tendencies. It’s one thing for him to make decisions for me when I can’t, but I can make my own decisions now. Married or not.

Still, I agree to tell my boss. If I’m killed in action, I want my body delivered to my family (my family!), not dumped in a mass grave for government employees. This needs to happen immediately because the job they told us about is this coming weekend. We’ll move forward with everything else after that.


	62. The Jeju Island Job

The next few days are pure bliss. I’m almost embarrassed by how happy we are. I’m still just so daunted by it but I’m starting to understand how completely, utterly wrong I was about Adam for all those months. That boy is madly in love with me. He hid his feelings so well until Bodrum, but even then he kept it reined in, not wanting to scare me off. He was still holding back even after I came here. Not anymore. He can’t stop saying it; he can’t stop showing it. Knowing everything I know now, the intensity of it is almost scary.

I’m madly in love too. I can’t believe I have a husband. That I’m married to Adam Fucking Zapatenov. I’m now part of a huge family, even though most of them won’t know for a while yet. I have a new and very nice home up here in this apartment. I look forward to putting my touch on it, making it my own. It’s all I’ve ever wanted and more. Other than professionally, of course, but no reason to think about that at a time like this.

The drought is over. It’s monsoon season. We barely leave the top floor, barely leave the bedroom. We’ll only be able to luxuriate like this for a few days. Now that Adam is back on the promotional circuit, his schedule is about to get crazy. I’ll reappear a couple of weeks after he does, after all the questions about me and us have been asked and deflected. Then I’ll be just as busy. I foresee a lot of exhaustion and a lot less action at home. This will be our honeymoon, and we are taking advantage of it.

Ever the diligent student, Adam demands to know everything there is to know about my body. He develops a new set of skills, which he practices faithfully. His instrumentalist’s hands already know a lot of useful things about frequency, tempo, pressure. Honestly, though, the best are the times when nobody is thinking about skills and we are just lost in each other, like we aren’t even separate people, moving as one, feeling as one, joined completely. Afterwards, we come to, all damp skin and sheets, and don’t let go. Making love is completely different when you’re in love like this. At these times I feel utterly complete.

Yeah. I made the right decision. 

But we can’t hide up here forever. 

We have to start the next phase of our lives, and it begins with our trip to Jeju Island. This job is not just hanging around and taking opportunities that present themselves. This is true field work. We both get a full briefing. I am given bona fide spy gear. Nothing that extravagant, but still. When they tell me, almost apologetically, that I won’t be able to carry a weapon on this mission, I realize that I have truly crossed into a different world. While we are there, I keep my promise and tell my boss that we are married. Turns out there had been an office pool ever since I left on how long it would take for us to get together. My boss congratulates us sincerely, but there seems to be a shadow on his face.

Adam still isn’t very happy about this job. We have tense conversation on the way home about me continuing to do this kind of work. He points out again that I want to be diplomat, not a spy. I remind him that our governments need our help, we both already agreed to do this, and I do not currently have any opportunities in diplomacy. For a moment, the question of what my next opportunity in diplomacy will mean for us hangs in the air. We leave it at that for now.

As we are getting ready to fly out, I kid that he should split his enormous appearance fee with me, since I’m the reason he got this gig and my stipend will probably only be another $2,000 cash. He looks at me quizzically, and has to remind me that what’s his is already mine. Oh. Right. 

It’s a very long flight on the large private jet the host sends for Adam. We manage to entertain ourselves, though. The food on board is excellent. There’s satellite TV. There’s also a bedroom. We join the club and put a few holes in the membership punch card.

The airstrip has a fleet of limos for guests, and one takes us to the hotel. The suite is gorgeous. Maybe this is the new normal for him, at least when someone else is footing the bill. He would not treat himself so extravagantly. In the room, I plug a little device into an outlet. It’s signal jammer, my first piece of real spy gear, meant to defeat any bugs that might be in here. This all seems way overboard. Nobody could possibly suspect Adam of espionage, and while they know he will have an assistant with him, they probably don’t know that it’s me, and they wouldn’t care even if they did.

We go over the plan. The North Koreans who were at Chernov’s party may not remember me, but just in case, we both need to remember that I’m not supposed to speak Korean. There will be plenty of people there who speak English. Thus, I’ll be there in my role as his assistant, not his interpreter. I’ll take whatever opportunities I can to overhear helpful things, but mainly I’ll stay by his side. He’ll mingle his way around the premises until I locate Min-Ho. While Adam performs, I’ll take the handoff. We will leave as soon as we can.

Conveniently, I spot Min-Ho lounging against one of the airstrip limos parked outside as soon as we pull up. I see a tiny flicker of surprise and realize there may not have been any way for whoever he works for to tell him who was coming. He’s embedded, alone. That has to be scary. What he does is legitimately dangerous.

The party is a more sophisticated and elegant version of the party at Chernov’s. The house sits on the cliffs on the edge of the island, as upscale as it gets. Sure enough, the same younger North Korean from Chernov’s party, Kim Sung-Hoon, is among the guests. He does recognize me, and he approaches. This is an opportunity. I have to go to some effort to get Adam to scram. He’s not excited about me interacting with earring-toucher again. As we explore a bit, Sung-Hoon chats me up in Russian, telling me, much like he did at Chernov’s party, how his own seaside estate puts this one to shame. He has his own private airstrip. Gardens designed by a landscape architect who works at Versailles. Useful information!

I’m in my most revealing dress, one Amelia insisted I buy. I dressed provocatively, with lots of cleavage, to give Min-Ho an innocent – well, maybe not innocent – reason to stand close enough to me to hand something off. Sung-Hoon gawks at me and touches my arm, my back, while I act impressed and interested. He mentions how beautiful I would find his home, the view from his deck of the sun rising over the ocean, the surf crashing against the cliffs below. Perhaps one day he’ll invite Adam to perform at a party of his own. He’s no fool though, he doesn’t reveal anything else. He hasn’t even revealed that he’s North Korean. When I’m sure I’m not going to get anything else useful out of him, I catch Adam’s eye. He quickly extricates me. Perfect.

While Adam is singing the Vocal Performance of the Year song and everyone at the party is completely transfixed by the power and beauty of his voice, I step out the service entrance. The catering staff are stacking dishes and the like onto carts under the watchful eyes of numerous security guards carrying serious weapons. Min-Ho is still with his limo, in plain view of the house, the staff, the panoramic windows into the ballroom. 

As soon as he sees me, he lights a cigarette. I know what to do. I walk over to him. Since we aren’t supposed to be able to speak to each other, I point at his cigarette and then pantomime taking a drag. I bat my lashes. He doesn’t look all that happy about it, but he gives my cleavage an unsubtle stare and nods. I step close and he hands me one. I put the cigarette between my lips and he pulls out a lighter. We cup our hands together while he lights the cigarette, and he slips me a tiny thumb drive. I palm it. I take a drag off the cigarette, trying not to choke.

“Thanks.”

He nods. A beat. Then he shoos me away from the car.

I make an apologetic face, and speak just barely loud enough for the next driver over to hear. “Oh, of course. Sorry. Thanks for the cigarette.”

He nods and leans back, exchanging a smirk with the next driver over while they both appreciate my assets. I suck down enough of the cigarette to look convincing to whoever may have witnessed the encounter. I drop it in the trash outside the entrance and go back in. I head straight to the bathroom, wipe down the drive, and slide it into the truly well-hidden slot in the spy shoes the embassy provided me. I head back into the room where Adam is singing. His eyes follow me. He finishes the set to the usual thunderous applause, makes the rounds, then comes to me.

“Did you smoke? You smell.”

“Let’s get out of here.” People fawn all over Adam as we leave. He eclipses me so much, even in this dress, that I may as well not even exist. It’s the perfect cover.

Back in our room, I am to upload whatever is on the thumb drive to a server located on the secure private internet used by certain parts of the U.S. government. No hotel wi-fi for this. I turn the power on my last piece of spy gear, a nondescript little black box that will make a massively encrypted direct connection to a government satellite. I connect it to my laptop, plug in the drive, wait for an app to self-execute. The files from the drive are already attached to a report that I have to fill out. I spend half an hour describing everything I saw and heard. I click a button, everything disappears completely, and that’s it. I put the drive back in my shoe and pack up my gear.

I’m pleased. It went so smoothly. It was so easy, and I even got some bonus Sung-Hoon information. Actually ... I loved it. I loved planning it, executing it, knowing that most of the people around me were essentially non-player characters in a game I was controlling. I liked feeling like I was outwitting the other players and even laying groundwork for the next round. I loved feeling like I was doing something that mattered, literally saving lives, if the officials who asked us to do this can be believed. The fact that Adam and I pulled this off together makes it even better. 

Adam has mixed feelings. He liked the same things that I did about it, but to him, it felt like stealing. It felt dangerous. I make light and he reminds me, very seriously, that it wasn’t that long ago that he spent an evening thinking I was dead. He can’t take being afraid of losing me, and me being in situations like this makes him very afraid.

I put my arms around him and try to reassure him. Living so dangerously would make some people wild and reckless. Not him. Tonight when I make love to him, he seems so vulnerable I can hardly take it. He moves slowly, gently, not taking his eyes off my face, only the occasional jagged breath giving him away. At the end he closes his eyes and drops his forehead against mine, for once keeping quiet. 


	63. We Have an Announcement

The next weekend is our own little party. We have invited about 25 people to the house on the vague pretext that we are gathering to thank them for their support, or usher in my return to the land of the living, or celebrate my birthday. Adam is in Moscow for the week filming more holiday specials. I have to spend the week planning a party, not at all in my wheelhouse, but one of those display-of-wifely-abilities tasks I’m obliged to take on. When I tell Fatima that I’m not confident in my ability to cook for 35, she laughs out loud and forwards me the number of one of the caterers she has in her favorites list, with instructions to put it on her account. Duh. Of course.

Ten of Adam’s relatives are coming: his aunts and uncles, along with their spouses, and Fatima’s parents. There are too many cousins to trust that group with this news. Our closest friends already know that we are together. They will never forgive us if we keep this from them. Besides, they will want to celebrate with us and we deserve some celebration after all we’ve been through. So Rashid and Amelia, Lukpan and Elena, Saraiya and Mohammed will join us. Adam and Rashid’s other best friend from childhood and his wife. He’s not part of the team but he can’t be excluded. Vanya, no guest. 

Dilshad needs to know the truth. He’s going to have to accommodate some odd requests from now on. Our public deception will require constant management. Plus I kinda want to throw that comment about pretending to be Adam’s girlfriend back in his face. Peter and his wife too, he can’t be the only one in the inner circle not to know. The other older couple sitting at Adam’s table at Elena’s wedding.

It’s party time. I’m looking forward to seeing all my friends. I’m a little apprehensive about meeting my new relatives. I have no idea how they are going to react to our news. I remind myself that I am trained to expertly navigate tense and awkward situations. Downstairs, before the guests start to arrive, Adam sees me muttering to myself, practicing pleasantries. He kisses me, says “you’ve got this,” and continues to look completely unperturbed. A little later, I catch him standing alone, eyes closed, taking those deep breaths like he does before his shows. Ha! I’m not the only one.

The guests arrive. I get lots of well wishes right off the bat, as everyone is pleased that I’m not dead. After about half an hour, greetings and pleasantries have dried up and people are starting to get a little more inquisitive about me staying at the house so long when I am obviously well enough to leave. Adam catches my eye and I go to him. It’s time. 

Adam’s siblings had the job of telling people that we requested no photos or videos be taken tonight, so for once no cameras are pointed at him. He clinks a spoon on a glass and everyone gathers around. 

“Thank you all for coming tonight to celebrate with us. The last time you were all here was the night that Katya’s ferry went down. On that night, all of you learned what Katya means to me. I want to thank you all for being there and for supporting me through those terrible hours.”

The faces in the room tell me yet again that he must have been in very, very bad shape that night.

“As you know, though, around 2 am we got the call that she survived.” A smattering of applause goes around the room. “The next morning I flew to China to get her. Thank you, Peter, for loaning me your jet.” Peter raises his glass to us and nods a “you’re welcome.”

Adam continues. “You all know Katya was seriously injured while saving four kids from the wreck. When I got to China, she was so medicated that she barely knew I was there. You may have seen the photo.” A murmur of admiration goes around the room. Just about everyone in the world has seen that amazing shot. 

“She couldn’t vouch for me. I had to more or less lie on the paperwork and basically steal her from the Chinese government.” He pauses, a smile beginning to creep across his lips, and looks at me for a moment before continuing.

“Some might say that I kidnapped her.”

A gasp goes through the room. They know what is coming. Adam is having a hard time keeping his smile contained.

“I flew her back and I brought her here.” He gestures around but almost all the Sanzhars already know what he’s getting at. “To our family home. Of course I didn’t let her out of my sight. I stayed by her side that night. And every night after that.”

The room is erupting with exclamations. He’s grinning ear to ear now. I have to say I’m looking pretty pleased myself. He holds his finger to his lips, shushing the crowd.

“I waited until she was well to tell her what that meant, but when I did, she agreed.” He looks down at me and lifts his hand to stroke my hair. It’s that utterly lovestruck look. My heart goes pitter pat. “We brought you here tonight to tell you that we’re married.”

Gasps from the Russians, cheers, and clapping from everyone. Someone shouts out something in Sanzhar. He answers in Russian.

“Yes, please, don’t bring me any more girls. I’m off the market.” Laughter.

They call out to me to say something. I anticipated this. With Aruzhan’s help, I have rehearsed the next part.

“Thank you all for being here. I want to tell you all how happy I am.” 

Adam looks at me in amazement. I’m speaking Sanzhar. 

“I lost my family when I was young. I never dreamed that I could be part of a family like this one day. I have never had friends like the friends I have made here.” I smile out at my girlfriends, my heart swelling. “Adam is the best friend I have ever had.” I allow myself a mischievous twinkle. “Plus, he has some other pretty nice qualities.” Everyone laughs. “I could not love him more. I promise all of you that I will be the best wife I can be to him and the best daughter-in-law I can be to his parents. Thank you all for welcoming me.”

The crowd surges in and I am lost in a sea of hugs and congratulations. Then the expected questions: kids, how will we keep this from the press, when did we fall in love, will I keep working for the team, on and on. The girls finally get me alone and, as expected, grill me on when and how Adam told me about my kidnapping. They’ve been dying to know what happened ever since that day in our room. I shock them by describing how he told me that he actually married me on Tuánjié months before that. Elena just about dies, bright pink yet again and fanning herself over how romantic it all is. 

Amelia feels very vindicated. “Ha! I knew it! I knew it! That had to be what he was doing praying with you like that. I just couldn’t believe he would do that without telling you, and it really didn’t seem like you were lying. Rashid said I was crazy.”

“Adam said it was just between us. He only told his parents.”

They are hanging on my every word as I tell them the rest.

Poor, sweet, Elena is so excited. “What happened after you said yes?”

I give her a level stare. “What do you think happened?”

If there was a record for how pink a person’s face can get, she just broke it.

Amelia lets me know how annoyed she is that Adam kept his feelings even from her, letting her suffer the frustration of watching us not be together when we so obviously were supposed to be. Rashid knew but was sworn to silence. Characteristically, she expresses all this loudly and without any filter, which attracts Adam’s attention. He comes over, the other husbands in tow. Adam and I, drunk on love for each other and everyone else, hug her and love her and thank her for believing in us from the beginning. 

The rest of the party is lovely. The caterers did a great job, of course the music Adam chose is perfect, everyone is so warm and welcoming. But it’s getting late now. While I have been chatting with the women, he has been up in the studio showing the guys a new song he’s been working on. All this talk of love and romance has made me impatient to be alone with my man. Finally I go up there and walk up behind his chair. I run my hands down his chest and lean over to kiss his cheek. “I want you,” I whisper.

He freezes, then announces: “Time for you guys to go.”

This was our wedding reception. Tonight it’s sweet and romantic, kissing through our smiles and adoring each other.


	64. Two Offers

I have to go to the embassy on Monday to deliver the thumb drive, return my super-cool spy equipment, and be debriefed. I have been told that there are people who want to see me in person as well as a video call I need to be on. Sure enough, my boss and our regional security officer are there along with some men I don’t know. These are the kind of hard, unsmiling men who real field agents report to. They take the lead. The meeting is long, stressful, and extremely surprising. 

Back home, I find Adam in the recording booth. He sees me through the glass and stops mid-phrase. He can see that I am pale and dead serious. He takes off his headphones and comes out. We sit on the couch. My mouth doesn’t want to open, but I force myself. 

“I got a job offer.” 

Adam’s face falls, his expression mirroring mine. We have both been in denial about this moment coming, and here it is, much sooner than either of us could have imagined. We’ve been together less than a month.

“Moscow?”

“No.”

“Seoul?”

“No. It’s not an embassy post.”

“What is it?”

“It’s with the US Bureau of Educational and Cultural Affairs. That’s the agency that sponsored your LA concert. Do you remember Juliet Botticelli?” 

He does.

“She got promoted, so her old job is open now. She wants me to take it.”

I can practically see Adam’s blood pressure and heart rate increasing. He is obviously anxious and unhappy about this. But he’s listening.

“What is the job?”

I tell him what Juliet told me on the video call I didn’t know I’d be having before my debriefing. The Bureau promotes peaceful relations among nations through cultural exchanges. It’s a part of the State Department that makes love, not war. I’d be working with foreign governments on international cultural programs and events like the Festival, and helping artists from other countries visit the US and vice-versa. 

I wouldn’t be an aide or interpreter. I’d be the one making deals on behalf of the United States. Not just one region. Globally. It’s a lot of job for someone my age, but most people my age don’t have my qualifications. Actually, nobody who applied for this job had my qualifications. With all my languages and my International Relations PhD, two years travelling the world as a diplomatic aide, and now a year working with a global artist on various international projects, I’m perfect. 

A lot of conflicting emotions are going through him. “It sounds like a dream job.”

“It is.”

He hesitates. “It sounds like a lot of travel.”

“She said I would spend 60-70% of my time traveling.”

“And the rest of the time?” It looks like he already knows.

“Washington DC.”

He puts his head in his hands. 

“Why? Why can’t you do it from here?”

“Foreign dignitaries want to meet in DC. It makes them feel like we are taking them seriously. It makes them look important back home. Plus they just like to visit the US. Fostering good relationships is the whole mission. We have to host them. And I would be the host.”

His voice is muffled by his hands. “You said you wouldn’t do this to me anymore.”

“I know. Adam, I didn’t take it. It is a dream job, but it’s not something that I ever even thought about before today. I can turn it down. I will. But if still want to pursue my career with the Foreign Service, I only have one other option.”

He looks up. “What is it?”

“Keep doing what I’ve been doing, but a lot more of it and at the next level.”

“What does that mean?”

I have to collect myself. This is pretty unbelievable. “The guys who came to debrief me finally explained what I’m doing here. They more or less confirmed what I have suspected for a while now.” Adam is listening intently. 

“When I first interviewed for the Foreign Service, they flagged me as a field agent right away. They put me on the diplomatic track because that’s what I wanted, but they figured they might as well use me for some intelligence gathering in the meantime. They’ve been doing that from the beginning.”

“Look at you. Of course that’s what they want. But what does that have to do with Sanzharistan?” 

“The operation with Kim Sung-Hoon and Dmitri Chernov has been going on a long time. They have known for a while that they were going to want to use me. They put me here because this was a good place to keep me close but out of sight. I felt like I was in storage here because I was.” 

“Why didn’t they tell you?”

“They don’t tell field agents anything until it’s time to activate them.” He looks as dazed as I feel. That is some serious spy talk right there.

“And now they want you to do more? You can’t possibly want that.”

“Well, it’s important work. They told me what was on that thumb drive.”

“Tell me.”

“A bunch of information about an enormous underground storage facility for black-market military weapons.” His jaw drops, much like my own did when they told me. I continue. “Schematics, delivery schedules, buyers and sellers, most of all inventory. Massive amounts of conventional weapons, but also materials for biological weapons. That’s what Sung-Hoon was buying from Chernov. Stolen Russian dirty bomb parts.”

“Biological weapons?” He’s just staring at me, dumbfounded. 

“Yes. But listen. The data didn’t include the facility’s location. They were only able to find it because of the things I picked up the two times I talked to Sung-Hoon.”

I watch as this sinks in. “So you flirted with an arms dealer and got him to disclose the location of his secret bunker.”

“Pretty much. Oldest trick in the book.”

He’s shaking his head in disbelief.

“I know.” I don’t know how to define what I’m feeling right now. It’s mostly bad. He can tell.

“Is there something else?”

“We destroyed it. Drone strike. His house, the underground complex, everything. Destroying those weapons probably saved a lot of lives.”

“Then why don’t you look happy?”

“Sung-Hoon was killed. Along with a bunch of his people.”

“Oh. I see.” Adam understands. It’s not as though I even liked Sung-Hoon, but being directly responsible for the death of someone who liked me, someone I deceived, is a bitter pill.No matter how evil he was.

“Anyway, the agency was impressed. They think I could be an extremely valuable field agent. They have more involved jobs in mind for me. They know this wasn’t my plan but if I don’t go to the Bureau of Cultural Affairs, they want to bring me on board full time. I’d live here and stay on the team, but it would only be for cover.”

“More involved means more dangerous.”

“Probably, sometimes.”

“More flirting with dangerous men.”

“I don’t think they want me just for my language skills. They still need Chernov.”

I wait for him to put his foot down and say no. To my surprise, he doesn’t do so immediately.

“What happens if you refuse?”

“I have to decide whether I’m in or out. If I’m out, there won’t be any more side jobs from the embassy. They gave the job in Moscow to somebody else. There’s nothing for me there or in Seoul. If I don’t do this, I won’t have any more ties to Uncle Sam. I’d be all yours.”

“You know that would be my preference.” Yes, he has said so many times. 

“I know.”

“But you would hate it.”

“I wouldn’t hate it. I’d get to stay home. I’d be with you and our friends. I like working on the team. I love working with you on the road. It’s not what I planned but I don’t hate it.” Wow. I just called Izmir home.

“You’d be sacrificing your whole career for that. Everything you’ve worked for.”

I try to tread carefully. “It will be very difficult to move forward with my career once I’m out of the Foreign Service.”

He’s quiet, not meeting my eyes, thinking. Finally, he looks up. “I couldn’t live with myself if you did that.”

I’m shocked. “You think I should become a field agent?”

“What? No! God, no.” He stops short. “Unless you want to. Do you want to?”

“Honestly, I was so sure you would forbid it that I didn’t think it through.” 

While I don’t like being controlled, I think one spouse can legitimately forbid the other from taking a job that might involve having sex with other people or getting murdered. 

“Our life would be pretty close to how it has been. How we thought it was going to be. Just the jobs would be more frequent and more intense. And sometimes longer.”

“Then you do want to?” He’s trying to look neutral, hide how alarmed he is.

“It would certainly be exciting. I really would be a spy, using my job with you as cover, hiding my other career and our marriage, fighting crime, taking down drug lords and weapons dealers and who knows what else. Saving lives.”

He’s really trying hard to look supportive.

“But no. I don’t want either of us to go through anything like that shipwreck again. Part of why they were interested in me in the first place was because I didn’t have any friends or family to exploit or to worry about me. It’s different now. I can’t ask you to endure that. And while I like saving lives, I don’t want to be responsible for ending any.”

He is visibly relieved. “So.” he says.

“So.” This is an impossible situation.

“The other job.”

“The exact opposite. I would be working for directly for peace and mutual understanding. No political agenda beyond improving relations between the US and other countries. All through art and culture. But I wouldn’t be here.”

He’s thinking hard again, then after several long moments, he speaks. “Do you remember what I said to you the night we met?”

I only have to think a moment. “That bringing your culture to the world was your greatest ambition.”

“That’s right. It is. There are artists all over the world who feel exactly like I do. You would be helping them. I love the idea of you doing that. I can’t think of anything better. I can’t think of anything more suited to you. If you want this job, you should take it.”

I can’t believe it. “I do want this job, but I don’t want to be apart from you. Haven’t we had enough of that?”

He looks resolute. “We can weather it. After this last year, we can weather anything. We can talk every day. We will both be traveling a lot. We can coordinate our schedules and try to meet up wherever we are. We can visit each other. I can afford a lot of plane tickets. Maybe I’ll lease my own jet.”

I have to laugh. “You can’t afford that.”

“Not yet. But I’m probably closer than you think. I might have to put off buying you that bungalow in Bodrum, though.” Is he kidding? He looks like he’s not kidding. “North America is already my next target. I’ll be going there a lot. Maybe I can live in New York for a couple of months. How far apart are New York and DC?”

Is he actually considering this? “A lot closer than Izmir and Moscow. A four-hour drive. Two and a half hours on the express train.”

“That’s nothing. I was going to spend some time in LA too. How far is that?”

“Manageable if you have a first-class recliner on a redeye. Long-weekend distance.”

“We can meet other places too when we both have time. What’s halfway between DC and Izmir?”

I have to smile. “Paris.”

He smiles too. “We can do this. As long as we are committed to each other, we can do anything. But not forever. We still go public in two years. And then we have to be together, no matter what.”

“What happened to worrying about losing me?”

“Are you going to leave me?”

“Never. But you’re the one who has to scrape women off you. How do I know you won’t leave me?”

“What women? There are no other women. You are the only woman in the world.” His eyes say it’s true, and I melt a little. I don’t think he’ll ever stop affecting me like this. “This will even help us keep our secret. And when we are together, it will be twice as good, don’t you think?” 

Devilish twinkle? Really? I honestly can’t believe he’s willing to do this.

“You’re really serious. You want to do this.” 

“What kind of man would I be if I said no? You helped me chase my dream for the last year. You should chase yours now. Yes, I want you to take it. “

I’m truly amazed. “I want to sleep on it, but I think I will. I can’t believe you’re doing this for me.”

“What wouldn’t I do for my one true love?”

Swoon


	65. Preparing

Juliet gave me six weeks to wrap up my work in Sanzharistan and move to DC. I told her that as a condition of my acceptance, I was going to need some extra accommodations in my schedule. I will need long weekends. I will need to be able to work remotely when I don’t absolutely have to be in DC. She pressed me hard: my employment records show me as being distinctly unattached and available for anything, anytime. 

Well, I’m in a relationship. We’re going to make it work. I have to know where I’m going to be well in advance, so we can, uh, coordinate. Visit each other. She knows about the rumors of course, and that I have been recovering at Adam’s house since the wreck. “What,” she laughs, “did you two get married?” 

You could have knocked her over with a feather. 

There’s a lot to do. First, we have to tell everyone. They are uniformly shocked. His parents have no idea what to think. They agree that the job is amazing, but they can’t understand how we are willing to be apart for even a day after all we’ve been through. We have to reassure them that we know we can do this because of what we’ve been through. And we swear that in two years we will reunite and dutifully set about reproducing. I’m stunned when I hear Adam say that he’ll go to where I am if he has to. His parents look even more stunned than I do.

I rent a furnished place in DC. I look for an austere efficiency like the one I have here, but Adam won’t have it. “This is our second home,” he says. “It should feel like it.” He plans to spend as much time there as he can. We choose a beautiful historic townhouse in the heart of Alexandria, walking distance to everything. It has an attached garage perfect to hide a celebrity’s comings and goings. It costs more than half my salary and I’ll spend less than half my time there. He doesn’t care, he’s happy to pay for it, or let me pay for it and use his – our – bank card for everything else. This is going to be hard to adjust to.

This reminds us that we have to sign our marriage contract. I assumed we’d go with what he earns is his and what I earn is mine, but he won’t have that either. We are a family. We share everything equally, starting from the day we met, because, he says, he could never have achieved what he did this past year without me. 

We have to itemize what we both had as of that day. He’s surprised at how much money I already had. My two suitcases and total lack of bling gave no hint. I’m a bit awed by his net worth on that day, and more so when the accountant tells me what it is now. Concerts, appearance fees, endorsements, modeling, and a surprising amount of royalties for music he has written for himself and others really adds up. Even if we get divorced, God forbid, my half of what we brought in just over the last year or so will leave me reasonably comfortable for a while. I hold up my bracelet. “Cheapskate.” He laughs. “I’ll make it up to you.”

I don’t want to miss a minute with him over the next six weeks. I go back to work and join him at all his appearances. It’s December, so there are a ton of them. Nobody can see our matching bracelets under our long sleeves. That is one thing that he absolutely will not sacrifice. He’s not taking his off, and he doesn’t want me to either. Not until we can wear rings.

It’s been a while, but we fall into the groove quickly. Unlike before, it’s very easy to maintain a professional distance in public, knowing that there will be no distance between us at all when we get back to the hotel. For appearances, I muss up a bunch of hotel rooms that I don’t actually sleep in. 

Meanwhile, Adam is having a major creative burst. He’s in his studio for hours every day that we aren’t on the road, new material pouring out of him. Rashid is up here with him, they’re sketching out lyrical concepts, calling collaborators. I love hearing what’s going on while I putter around the apartment. I’m no expert but I bet he already has an album’s worth of material accumulated. His music covers the entire range of emotions. When he is working, he feels them to his core. On stage he can switch from one to the next quickly, but when he spends a whole day immersed in one emotion, it sticks with him, even when he comes to bed. I kind of hate to admit it, but it’s pretty arousing not knowing what to expect. I don’t want a dark and predatory husband, but I don’t mind that guy showing up in bed from time to time. 

In the office, I get to write my own announcement describing my departure from the team. I thank myself for a productive year, wish myself luck with my new career, and mention that while I am returning to the United States, I’ll be staying on board as a consultant. That should provide a little cover for my trips back to Sanzharistan, or if Adam and I get spotted somewhere.

Cho-Ji comments in seconds. “What a loss for you and your team. My condolences.” I’m surprised Cho-Ji would respond publicly after all the attention the three of us have gotten. What is he doing? 

I get a text from Adam right away. “You’re still banned!” I laugh. OK, he can handle it. Adam responds. 

“No condolences necessary. We’re losing our interpreter but keeping our friend.” No emojis. Cho-Ji doesn’t respond immediately, but after a while: “Glad to hear it.” No emojis. I bet the two of them are direct messaging right now. Adam won’t want Cho-Ji to have any misconceptions about my availability.

The announcement of my departure results in his fandom’s immediate and final verdict that all the rumors were wrong. Despite all those photos, despite him flying all the way to China to get me, despite me living in his house for an amount of time that people can’t quite pinpoint, we’re just friends. We must be, because there is absolutely no chance in hell that I would be leaving him behind and moving to the United States if there were the slightest chance of us being anything more.

The last fans and paparazzi stalking my apartment move on. I pack up the few items I still had over there. The only thing there I really cared about was my Omsk pass. We don’t even need to come up with a cover story for me living at our house last few weeks. Nobody is watching. 

I wrap up what I can at work and start looking for my own replacement. I discard hundreds of resumes from unqualified young women, many of whom include a photo that I did not request. Fortunately, there are also some qualified applicants who don’t simply appear to be angling for access to Adam. I pass those on to Saraiya.

Saraiya is very sad about my departure. I hadn’t fully appreciated what good friends we have become and how much I like working with her. I promise her that I’m not disappearing. I still intend to be very involved in Adam’s career, now as a family member rather than an employee. I wasn’t kidding that I’m staying on board as a consultant. I’ll be watching his social media, his website, his appearances. She should expect to hear from me a lot. 

Elena is sad too, but more than that, she just can’t believe that I’m doing this. How could I do that to him?! I have to remind her that Adam has tons of support from all his friends and family. She promises to do her best to help take care of him. I’m not so sure I want her and her giant crush “taking care” of my husband, but I have the perfect job for her. I tell her that she is to ensure that glommy dancer comes nowhere near Adam. I show Elena the dancer’s Instagram, which horrifies her, and Elena gives me her solemn vow. She will attend every rehearsal, every show, every outing with the performers, and will bodily intervene if necessary.

Amelia is the worst off. I didn’t realize how much I had come to mean to her. Saraiya and Elena are best friends, and now Amelia is losing hers. I reassure her as best I can, tell her that I love her, which I do, and that I owe all my happiness to her. I promise I’ll be back, I’ll be coming to shows, meeting them on the road, and I’d love for her to come visit me in the States. We would have so much fun. The thought of a girls’ vacation in the United States perks her up.

Adam and I spend New Year’s Eve in London. He’s not the headliner, but he’s a featured artist, on the platform when the ball drops. He sings beautifully and speaks English in his wonderful accent and I can practically feel the city fall at his feet. It’s extra exciting because it’s the first step in his two-year plan to conquer the West. I feel a little sad that he’s on the platform for the fireworks and I can’t be with him. It’s all better, though, when we get back to the hotel and make fireworks of our own. 

The next two weeks is getting ready for his homecoming show. He has brought so much positive attention to his country that the Ministry of Culture is subsidizing what will be his biggest show ever. Forty thousand people attending in the country’s biggest stadium. 

It will be the LA version of Ambassador, him, all the bells and whistles, and the other Sanzhar groups who performed with him. While he’s rehearsing, all of us in the office are swamped. This huge concert is taking place with less than two months’ preparation, and we have to do all the work. 

The Ministry is paying all the technical expenses. Adam will only have to pay the performers and staff out of the ticket sales. Logistically, it can’t be free, but we can price the tickets low enough to be affordable even for the nomadic cousins of the Steppes. I’m now privy to what Adam takes home after everything else is paid for. Even at that price, he’ll make more in one night than I will in a year at my new job. He’ll put a quarter into the company, keep a quarter for us, and donate the rest. 

This is the last piece of business I work on for the team. Everyone drives down this afternoon. Adam has come to pick me up. Our van is out front. I shut down my computer and take a last look around the shabby office. I’ll miss this place.


	66. He Loves his Fans (Mature Content)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This Chapter contains the other, let's call it "detailed" scene, though less explicit the last one. If you aren't comfortable with that, move along when you get to that point. You'll know when.

The homecoming show is finally here. It’s by far his biggest and probably his best show ever. He is overjoyed and unreserved, energy through the roof, joining the dancers at times, leaning out to the audience, giving every song 110%. The audience is a screaming sea of glowsticks. The jumbotrons are literally 100 feet high. I’m able to watch the whole thing without embarrassment. Forget not being embarrassed. I’m relishing every moment. Go ahead and make those faces, baby. Show them everything. Give them all a thrill. You’re mine.

The crowd is incredible, welcoming home their son. During the last song he jumps off stage and goes out to them. He always promises security that he won’t, but he almost always does. Sometimes they manhandle him back on stage, but tonight they just follow him. There is a barrier set up to keep the fans away from the edge of the stage. At least he stays on his side tonight. Sometimes he doesn’t. 

The fans who managed to get tickets all the way up front are out of their minds with love for him, stretching their arms out to him, screaming as he leans out way over the barrier, touching as many of their hands as he is able to reach. He’d fall over if the guards weren’t holding him by his belt. He works his way down the line, singing and smiling and letting them touch him. He even manages to sign a few autographs while singing. He really loves them. He’d make love to all of them if he could. 

And I have an idea. 

I’m down in the green rooms well before he is. The local fan club decorated it yesterday. I find their lanyard, buttons, an Adam T-shirt, one of those headbands with his name in lights, and deck myself out. Tonight I’m a fan. Saraiya is taking photos. She sees me and bursts out laughing. I don’t care. I’m smiling and proud. I pose for her and she takes my picture.

The performers start pouring in, high and exuberant off the adrenaline of their biggest show ever. The dancers are first off of the stage and tumble in, still in motion. The backup singers arrive, whooping and passing out high-fives, followed by the band, then the crew. Finally the star appears, having made his way through the corridors packed with admirers. He’s beaming, energy still pouring off of him, accepting hugs and cheers. It’s relief as much as anything else. He always wants to perform to the highest level and is always anxious about how it will go. 

Every face in the room is turned toward him and split with an ear-to-ear grin. As always, I hang back, watching, allowing everyone else to take their turn with him. I’ll be last. He finally sees me and comes over, hugging me tight with his chin on my head. I squeeze him back. He’s drenched. I can feel his heart pounding. Everyone gets hugs after a concert, but it still has to be quick. He releases me a little and looks at my getup. “You’re crazy,” he laughs, then he’s whisked off to the heads of the national fan club, thanking them for their support.

I leave in the first wave. Most of the fans and paparazzi will be following after him. It’s better if I’m not with him. Even though everyone seems to be convinced that we aren’t together, it’s too easy to slip up in the energy after a concert. I load up in a van with some local little moons. They are honored to be traveling with a planet. They ask me what’s it like to work so closely with him, whether he is as nice as he seems, things like that. I try to sound like a regular member of the cult, singing his praises without revealing anything.

At the hotel there is already a cluster of about 40 fans waiting. They always find out where we are. The moons are anonymous, but of course I’m now very well known. I still might have made it past them hidden among our little group, but the fan gear I’m wearing is pretty conspicuous. They recognize me right away and start to close in, calling my name. They want to give me gifts for Adam. I know the drill, of course, but I have never had to encounter Adam’s fans without him and the rest of the entourage, so it’s a bit intimidating. I know he would want me to be generous, so I stop and say hello and shake hands and take all the bags and bouquets I can carry, promising to get them to him.

The moons have gone on. I realize I’m alone and surrounded and the fans aren’t showing any signs of backing off. Lovers or not, they know that Adam and I are very close, and they are thus extremely interested in me. Nobody seems scary tonight, but I don’t want to take any chances. 

The hotel security guards are watching closely. They have been instructed to take special care of me. I catch one of their eyes, and they swoop in and escort me through the crowd. I keep waving and saying thank you, just like he would do, as the guards put me in the elevator and keep fans from following me in. I wonder if I might need security of my own. When we come out publicly, I feel sure that I will, at least for a while. That scene could have been very different if jealousy had been in the lobby.

My decoy room is close to the room we are sharing. I should have about half an hour before he arrives. I stop by our room first, dropping off the gifts and flowers. When he arrives, he’ll have even more. I call the concierge and ask her to send up a dozen vases, the larger the better. I head to my room. It needs to look like I slept there. It’s very possible that the maids are fans or even media spies. If they figure out that I didn’t sleep in my room, it will be all over the internet before we check out in the morning.

I’ve done this routine a lot while we traveled over the last month. I pull down the sheets and roll around on the bed. I toss the pillows on the floor and eat the chocolates. I open the window and move things around on the desk and pull the chair out. I put a glass of water and the TV remote on the nightstand. I go into the bathroom, get some towels wet, and throw some toilet paper in the trash, messing up the nice little triangle fold at the end of the roll. I open some toiletries. I examine my handiwork. It looks convincing enough to me, but I’m not sure an experienced maid will be fooled. I run my hands through my hair and collect a few loose strands that I sprinkle on the bed. 

Then I scurry back to our room. I can’t do anything about the security cameras, but security in a hotel like this can be trusted to neither care about nor talk about who sleeps in a celebrity’s room. When I enter, I’m surprised to find the concierge and a helper putting the flowers in vases. I panic a little but remember that it isn’t strange that a staff member would have a key. I feel silly carrying my light-up headband, but I pretend I have come to supervise. 

I ask them to show me his snack basket, which has his favorites, as requested. He’ll be starving. I ask them to combine some bouquets and leave some vases empty for him. They arrange all the gift bags on every available surface and turn down the bed. I officiously nod my approval, thank them, and tip them generously. 

Alone, I prepare. He’ll be here soon. I go to the bathroom and freshen up. I fluff up my hair and put on the headband. I put the lanyard, covered with Adam buttons, around my neck. I have the local fan club’s little flag to wave. It’s too bad I don’t have one of those temporary tattoos for my cheek, but I definitely look like a fan. I try not to laugh. It’s pretty weird to be wearing a t-shirt featuring my husband in a hero pose, legs apart, head thrown back, arm extended straight up, microphone in hand. He’s standing in front of his own name in four-inch high letters plastered across my chest. 

I take a deep breath, then pull my bra out from under the shirt. I take off my shoes and pants. The shirt comes down to mid-thigh so I’m still pretty decent. I consider removing my underwear but decide to leave that for him. I look over at the bed. This is so unlike me, but what the hell. He has gone home alone after every concert of his life. He deserves a treat. I climb on the bed and sit on my heels. I spread my knees apart a bit and pull the t-shirt down with one thumb to make sure my crotch is covered. I make what I hope is a come-hither face, lift my phone up high enough to capture the entire tableau and snap a few selfies. Damn! They’re not revealing but they are incredibly provocative.

Should I send one? Or should I surprise him? Is this too much? I picture him reaching out to all those fans dressed just like this, looking out at them such adoration and appreciation. Does he love his fans? Yes. Does a man like his wife to send him suggestive pictures? I think yes. I’m doing it.

I choose the best one, triple check that it is going only to him, and send it off. If he hears his phone at all he’ll know it’s me and he’ll open the text. I realize too late that he’ll have people all around him. His parents. Shit. 

I get a text back in seconds: OMG

I’m not sure if it’s good or bad.

Then another: Out front. Ten minutes.

OK, it’s good.

In half that time I can hear him outside the door, telling people “No, no, I’ve got it. Just give me these, leave those there, take those to the front desk. Thank you very much.” He’s trying to keep them out of the room. He cracks open the door and backs in, shooing everyone away. He has more flowers and gifts, as expected, but it’s clear he didn’t dawdle downstairs collecting them. I’m biting my lip, trying to keep my smile under control when he turns around.

He’s still high, of course, still the rock star, commanding the room the instant he walks in. He drops everything to the floor and takes it all in. The room is full of offerings for him, and I’m in the middle of it all. It is a temple to him and he’s a God. I’m half-naked, dressed to worship him, perched on our bed, my intentions unmistakable. Something like a shiver goes through him as he looks me up and down. I feel a rush and I’m ready, just like that. Damn, I’m easy. 

He shakes his head at me, looking confused and excited and a little disbelieving.

Smiling flirtatiously, I wave the little flag. Immediately he’s on me, pushing me back on the bed, pressing against me, kissing me, his skin and lips salty. He’s already hard. He’s easy too.

“What are you doing?” he asks, thrilled and amazed, his hands getting busy under my shirt.

“What do you think I’m doing?” I try to simper but I can’t stop smiling.

“Oh my God.” I think he’s embarrassed that I know he likes this, but he’s too excited to worry about it. He rises to his knees. Leather jacket on the floor. T-shirt on the floor. The lamplight throws his muscles into relief under his golden skin. Holy crap. Look at him. Belt on the floor. Shoes on the floor. Well, one shoe. The other didn’t make it off the bed. Then his tongue is back in my mouth. After several long seconds he pulls away from my mouth, breathing hard. 

“You can think about them.” I say teasingly. “I mean it. I won’t be jealous.” 

He clearly has no idea what to think of that, so I pull him back down and start biting his neck in the spots I know he likes best. He is making the most wonderful little moans now. He sits up again. The lanyard and buttons are in the way so he pulls them from around my neck and the headband goes with them. He goes for my underwear unceremoniously and yanks them right off. I don’t even have to lift up. 

“Should I keep the shirt on?” 

He snorts out an embarrassed laugh, but nods. “I can’t believe you’re doing this.”

“What wouldn’t I do for my idol?” I simper.

He slides his hand up my thighs.

“No, no.” I say. “You’ve given enough tonight. Now you take.” He blinks in surprise, but I don’t have to convince him. On his knees now as I lay back beneath him, he teases me by making a show of undoing the buttons of his jeans one at a time. He’s still performing for his fans. He is good. The beast is right there. So hot. I bite my lip. A show like this deserves applause. “Adam-Zi! Adam-Zi!” The chant of his Chinese fangirls, the most rabid of all. His expression is priceless. How a man can look so angelically sweet and so devilishly sexy at the same time is incomprehensible, but there it is. He pulls his pants down just enough – I could never have imagined him so decadent – and leans over me. He looks at his own image on my shirt and can’t quite suppress a laugh. But he loves it.

No preliminaries necessary. He enters me. He closes his eyes. He’s just like he is on stage, completely losing himself in the experience. I can only imagine what he’s seeing in his mind, fresh off stage in front of 40,000 adorers. His face is a study in rapture, sublime joy and carnal pleasure in equal parts. 

He’s never quiet, but tonight he is letting himself loose completely. I absorb it all. The sound of his voice, the sight of his face, the salt of his skin, the smell of his sweat, his body on and in mine, and the absolute overpowering love I have for him fill me with rapture of my own. It goes on and on. He’s not holding back; maybe he’s just savoring. Or maybe he really did have an orgasm during the concert. He sure looked like he did a few times. Those images will be dominating the fan sites for weeks.

After many minutes his pleasure starts to mount. His brows are knit, his mouth open as he moves harder and faster. I can only hold on for dear life. Any rougher and it would hurt, but this is pure ecstasy. I’m making my own noises and he opens his eyes to look down at me. That does it for him; he lets out a series of wild cries while hard shudders pass through him. So much for secrecy. The whole floor will have heard that.

He slides onto his side next to me, eyes closed again, freshly sweaty and out of breath. He pulls up his jeans, then pulls me to face him. He slides an arm under my neck and cradles my head as I snuggle under his jaw. I feel wonderful.

His breathing slows and I think he is falling asleep. But he moves back a bit to look at me. He pushes my hair back off my face. The star is gone and it’s just him now.

“Well, you finally made love to your fans,” I say.

“No. There’s only you.”

The love in his eyes takes my breath away. I snuggle in tight. I love him so much.


	67. Moving On

Here I am again. Me, at 26, with eight languages and two PhDs under my belt, about to start an assignment with the US Bureau of Educational and Cultural Affairs in Washington DC. I’m inside the airport, my two suitcases already checked, holding the same carry-on bag that I arrived with. But so much has changed. I have a life now. A life I love, a husband I adore, and wonderful friends. 

And yet I’m moving on. 

My friends have all come to see me off. Aruzhan wanted to but we had to say no, too suspicious. My girlfriends are crying their eyes out. Adam’s eyes and mine are dry. We refuse to think of this as anything close to goodbye. 

He will come to New York in a few weeks for a slew of appearances. I’ll go there for a three-day weekend, which my government job allows me to take every other week. Then he’ll come down to spend a few days with me in our second home. Until then, we have vowed to have a video call every day without fail at 8 am his time, 10 pm mine, even if all we can do is say hello, I love you, goodbye.

The team won’t be disclosing this trip in advance. That’s the strategy going forward. He and his fans will miss seeing each other at his appearances, but it is safer not to have people looking for him when we plan to be together. For now, we can probably even go out in New York like normal people as long as we keep a low profile. If we are seen, well, it’s not so strange that he would get together with his good friend who just moved back to the States.

A month later we will meet in Paris for another long weekend. Once I know more about my travel schedule, we’ll look for ways to overlap.

This is how it will be. This is what I have to focus on, or else my heart will break in two.

I’m crazy, this is crazy. How can I leave behind my husband, all these wonderful people, my new family and home, and the excitement and fun of working on Adam’s team for a literal bureaucratic job on the other side of the world, all by myself? I can’t think about it or I’ll have a panic attack. It’s just for two years. Or if we hate it I’ll just quit. It will be fine. Nothing bad will happen.

At security, it’s time for goodbye. The country’s most famous celebrity is already being filmed by at least a dozen people. At least they are keeping a discreet distance. My friends all hug me long and hard. He’s last. We can’t keep it as quick as we should. 

Squeezing me fiercely, he whispers, “I love you. Be safe. Call me when you get home.”

“I love you too. I will.”

He releases me, both of us trying to control our expressions. Rashid raises his hand to give Adam a sympathetic pat on the back, but Adam warns him off with a barely perceptible head shake. Don’t expose us.

One last look at my friends. 

One last look at my love.

I turn, and I am gone.

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you made it this far, THANK YOU SO MUCH for reading! 
> 
> I'd love to know what you thought, good, bad, or indifferent. This is my first long-format work, so any feedback is greatly appreciated.


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